


There's a charcoal sky tonight

by iiscos



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Post-Apocalypse, with fairy tale elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-10 14:30:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3293840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiscos/pseuds/iiscos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isco struggles to survive amidst a catastrophic war. James is a fallen star.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> My cutesie Jamisco coffeeshop AU never managed to take off, so I ended up writing something much darker. Planning to be novella-length. Stay tuned!

Isco still dreams at night—of whimsical notes of songbirds that greeted him in the morning and golden apples that hung like jewels from rounded, bushy trees. He dreams of sunsets that tinted the heavens in splendid orange, pink, and red, and the fields of stars that once adorned the ink-black sky, which he and Antonio had meticulously mapped as children, telling their own tales of gods and heroes.

It has been many years since Isco last heard the melodies of songbirds, tasted the sweetness of apples, or seen sunsets and stars, but he supposes he should be grateful that he dreams at all, a glimmer of hope in the most brutal of times. Because reality is hellish—a nightmare since the moment of waking to a harsh gust of wind past boarded windows, or an eerie howl of a wolf, a ghost, a creature too powerful to be kept by the spiked wires encircling his house. But perhaps the worst, cruelest twist of all is that Isco is alone upon waking—his mother's gentle smile, his father's safe reassurance, and Antonio's wild laughter all fading with the morning mist.

Isco has his father’s rifle by his pillow, sparingly used but undoubtedly necessary to warn off looters and wild animals. He has stopped sleeping in his bed a long time ago, opting instead to stack his quilts and pillows beneath the long, mahogany table in the otherwise empty dining room. Explosions in recent months have been few and far in between, but one can never be too careful, especially when the sharp, metal debris of the last air strike still lie untouched in a garden that once flourished with snow peas, cauliflower, and a golden apple tree.

So when the ground shakes one morning as dawn is barely breaking—as white, blinding light floods through the cracks at the window, engulfing everything in it’s path—Isco remains resolutely calm, bringing his hand to the scruff of the Labrador by his side, urging the whimpering animal to shush. 

He knows it’s different this time—the impact close enough to make the entire house shake, the thunder so loud that it dulls his senses. Isco doesn’t dare to open his eyes, fearing the embers that would blind him as they did to so many before. And in that moment, the prospect of death seems strangely relieving, despite everything in his nature urging him to survive. Isco has persevered for so long—blessed with relative fortune in a world irredeemably cursed—and few will scorn him for this brief moment of capitulation, when fate dangles the promise of peace so alluringly before his tired eyes.

But death does not greet him that day, the lights and sounds soon fading and leaving nothing but the weak glimmer of dawn and the ringing inside Isco’s ears. He waits an indefinite span of time before pushing aside his down quilt and rising to his feet. He slips his arms through his father’s old leather jacket and pulls the strings tight on his heavy, army boots. He wraps his scarf three times to cover his neck and mouth and slings the rifle over his shoulder. Messi scampers next to him and pushes his nose against Isco’s thigh, softly growling as he follows his master outside.

Flecks of dust swirls with the feverish wind, settling like snow on Isco’s clothes and hair. Not so far into the distance, a pillar of smoke rises from the woods, glowing ethereal blue like nothing the boy has ever seen. Perhaps an army jet was shot down, or even a carrier plane, but if it had been a missile, surely Isco’s house would have been singed to cinders.

Isco pushes past the thorns and brambles, plodding deeper into the dark, dust-coated woods. The wind grows hotter as he approaches the site of impact, carrying a few helpless leaves charred black at the edges. Isco does not find any burnt metal or airplane debris or supplies that may have survived the crash. Instead, he sees a crater the size of a football field, dark-rimmed like a black halo among charred, leafless trees. At the center lies a small ball of fire—a gleam of blue, yellow, and white that is fighting to shine against the harsh wind and dry dust. 

Isco only dares to approach once the light has faded to nothing. He orders his Labrador to sit and wait as he skids down the edge of the crater and onto the smooth compacted earth. He takes each step with caution, regarding with solemn awe at the destruction caused by what he can only assume to be a meteor. Everything from trees, stones, cliffs, and hills have been flattened by the impact, narrowly evading Isco's house by a mile or two. 

Halfway to the core, Isco manages to make out the form of a person and thinks surely his eyes are playing tricks on him. He picks up his pace, the rhythmic thudding of his heavy boots filling the otherwise unnatural silence, until he reaches the unconscious stranger—a young man, he finally realizes—tanned, dark-haired, and sweet-faced. He couldn’t be more than Isco’s age, barely pushing 20 years.

Isco kneels beside him and examines the extent of the injuries—burns at the left shoulder, bruises at the hip, cuts and scrapes along an arm bending in an awkward angle. It’s a miracle that the boy is still alive, let alone breathing and sustaining seemingly nonfatal wounds.

Isco shrugs off his jacket and covers the boy, preserving his modesty for whatever it’s worth. He takes the less battered arm and drapes it over his shoulder, before lifting the stranger gently until he could support most of his weight on his shoulders and back. 

He takes a clumsy step forward, adjusting to balance their centers of gravity. The boy is a few inches taller, making the trek out of the crater more awkward than anticipated. Messi is pacing restlessly by the time Isco reaches the edge, growling and making himself nuisance. 

“Shh,” Isco coos, nudging his dog away from the stranger’s limp form. “It’s fine. He’s fine. Let’s go home.”


	2. Chapter 2

Isco kicks aside the dining room table and flattens the bundles of quilts beneath, before laying the stranger down on the makeshift bed. He lights a fire and a few candles, warms water drawn from the well, and fumbles in the cabinet for bandages, lavender oil, and honey to prevent infections. 

Using two thin sticks among his stock of firewood, Isco makes a crude splint and ties it to the boy’s broken arm with strips of leather. He works quickly, washing the dirt and blood from the open wounds and applying bandages as economically as possible, knowing in the back of his mind that he will need to find replacement soon. And when his finger slips while treating a particularly nasty burn, he earns a flinch and a hiss from the owner of the injured arm.

Isco locks eyes with the strange boy, who is awake now and watching him with an odd mixture of curiosity and confusion, delicate features grimaced in discomfort.

Isco inhales steadily, cutting the bandage with his teeth before tying a neat knot at the base of the stranger’s wrist.

“Can you sit?” he asks, and the boy nods, pushing himself up on his good arm and frowning at the lifeless weight of the other.

Isco treats the burns and scratches on his shoulders, before making a sling with the remaining bandages and a clean handkerchief.

“So, are you some kind of angel?” he asks as he reaches for a washcloth, wiping blood and ointment from his fingers.

The boy shakes his head.

“That’s a shame because I’d really like to give God a piece of my mind.”

Isco takes a chipped ceramic bowl from the counter. It had once been part of a beautiful kitchen set that his mother proudly displayed, but Isco had pawned most of the parts for eggs and white rice, soap and candles.

He fills the bowl with water before handing it to the stranger, who takes a hesitant sip after muttering a hoarse, “Thank you.”

“So what are you exactly?” Isco prods. “A fairy? An alien from outer space? Honestly, at this point, nothing surprises me.”

The boy stays silent, eyes resolutely fixed to the patterned quilt draped over his knees. Isco can tell that answers won't be coming easily, trauma from the fall notwithstanding. But he feels too tired to care at the moment, and something about this boy seems honest, trustworthy, and utterly human despite the extraordinary circumstances in which they met. And if Isco ends up being too naïve, he has faith in his own ability to take down an unarmed, injured man, if needed be.

“Got a name, at least?” he asks.

“James,” says the boy.

“My name is Isco, and this is Messi.” He gives his Labrador a gentle rub on the back. “This is our house in the middle of the woods. It’s not much, and we don’t get many guests, but you’re welcomed to stay until you feel better.”

~~

With James sleeping soundly on the dining room floor, Isco proceeds with his morning as usual. He cuts wood for the fireplace, draws water from the well, and inspects the spiked wires around his fence for damage, on the semi rare occasion that a feral cat or dog has gotten caught. He takes Messi with him into the woods and collects the waning stocks of wild berries, plantain, and asparagus, knowing that the looming winter will be harsh and unforgiving.

James is still asleep by the time he returns, curled up beneath his mother’s embroidered quilt. Isco rummages through the armoire for Antonio’s old clothes—a long-sleeved shirt and drawstring pants—and folds them into a neat pile for his guest to discover upon awakening. He cleans the kitchen, washes the dishes, and takes the bloodstained sheets to the river to scrub clean as best as he can.

By the time his chores are done, the sun is merely a sliver of orange behind the distant mountains. Isco fastens the heavy, iron lock on his front gate and slips the key safely inside the pocket of his jacket. He lights a candle as soon as he steps through the door and sees James jolt awake at the disturbance.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, setting the candle on the table that he normally would be sleeping under. “It’s just me.”

The strange boy relaxes upon hearing those words, although fatigue and wariness are still evident in his eyes.

“How’re you feeling?” Isco asks, folding his legs beneath him as he kneels beside the bedding. He touches James’ forehead before the latter can respond, and James tenses momentarily at the unexpected touch but eases soon enough. His forehead feels hot against Isco's palms, and his skin looks pale, save for two spots of fever high on his cheeks.

“Here, put these on, if you’re still cold.” Isco takes the bundle of clothes at the foot of the bedding and tosses them onto the boy’s lap. “They were my brother’s, but I think they’d fit.”

James nods, fumbling awkwardly at the long-sleeved shirt, his dominant hand useless between the splints. Isco doesn’t hesitate to assist his injured guest, pulling the shirt over his head before undoing the sling and gently easing the broken arm through the sleeve. He blushes as he lays eyes on the remaining shorts and pants, before deciding that further assistance is no longer warranted. He then flees into the kitchen to boil some tea—ginger with raw honey to reduce fever, something his mother had taught him.

By the time he returns, James is bleary-eyed and on the brink of sleep, blankets wrapped tightly around his shivering shoulders. Isco offers the mug, and James drinks it all with an alarming sense of urgency.

“Wait, slow down—it’s boiling hot!” Isco protests, though his words fall to deaf ears.

James doesn't seem to mind, sighing contently before dropping his head onto the pillow. His lashes flicker as he struggles to remain awake.

“Thank you,” he says, attempting a smile, "For helping me."

“I—uh…” Isco licks his drying lips, tongue-tied and mind startlingly blank. “No problem. Don’t hesitate if you need anything.”

~~

That night, Isco sleeps in Antonio’s old bed, beneath a spare blanket with moth-bitten holes. Messi—still wary of the stranger in their home—remains loyally by his side, curled against his back and offering much-appreciated warmth.

Isco dreams of the day that the city caught ablaze, how the ground had shook beneath his feet and the roar of fire obscured even his own screams. The air was too hot to breathe, and his lungs burned with each inhale, pleading for oxygen. The city was dark red like a hellish night, the smoke so thick that not even light could shine through. Cinders had stung his eyes, singed his clothes and the ends of his hair, and he could do little but follow the current of the crowd, thousands of people muddling through blindly, escaping the burning streets and the sky-reaching buildings that threaten to crumble like dust in the wind. His family was somewhere in the vastness of the city, and Isco swallowed the fear that would otherwise paralyze him. He had to reach the edge of the city, cross the river, swim if he must, and find his way home, if he even hoped to see his family again. But luck had never been on his side.

He wakes from his fitful sleep, eyes wet and heart aching. Messi pushes his nose against the side of his head, licking at the skin below his ear. Isco pinches his eyes closed and wills away the memories, which always haunt the worst during the cold, lonely hours of the night.

He flips aside his covers and sits with his head between his knees for a minute or two, until his breath is no longer ragged. And judging by the darkness beyond the shutters and boarded up windows, it will be hours before the break of dawn.

Isco slips out of the bedroom for a glass of water and unexpectedly finds James well and awake, inspecting one of the floor to ceiling bookcases by the fireplace.  


“What are you doing?” Isco asks, and James startles at the sudden inquiry, unaware of the other’s presence.

“Sorry, I was—uh.” The boy quickly turns around, flushing in embarrassment. “I didn’t touch anything.”

“It’s fine if you want to read something.” Isco rubs at his neck awkwardly. “I just didn’t expect you to be awake.”

James looks blankly at him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because it’s some ungodly hour of the night.” Isco lofts a brow. “And people sleep at night.”

“Oh,” James says, looking demurely to the braided rug beneath his bare feet. Isco raises both of his brows.

“Don't you?” he asks, and the boy shrugs one shoulder.

“Sometimes, yeah. Not everyone sleeps at night. The stars don’t. They shine the brightest when the sky is dark.”

Isco blinks twice and opens his mouth, only to form a wordless gape. He doesn’t know what he had expected out of his first actual conversation with the strange boy, but it certainly wasn’t this. It all feels like a dream, another trick of his mind.

“Well, technically, the sun is a star,” is the only intelligible thing he can think of, but he feels ridiculous all the same.

“And quite the average one.” James wrinkles his nose. “But it’s much closer, so you pick and choose your battles.”

“I’m sure we’re not the only ones the stars shine for,” Isco says, and the boy throws his head back and laughs, his smile wide enough to reach his eyes.  


“You’d be surprised,” he says, and Isco has to take a moment to process the information, to remind himself that the past day has been nothing but ordinary, despite how normal James might appear.

“You’re not human,” Isco states matter-of-factly, and James’ easy smile falters. Isco feels the room chill, almost. “Well, it's pretty tell-tale. I mean, you fell out of the fucking sky.” He feels unnecessarily defensive. “You can’t blame me for being a little bit curious.”

James chews nervously at his lower, eyes darting around the room as if looking for an escape route. The reluctance to speak is as evident as before, and Isco feels a twinge of guilt for his harsh demands, but he also believes that an explanation is wholly deserved, since he has so readily opened his home to a stranger in need.

“Why are you afraid of telling me?” he adds when met with stubborn silence. “Are you worried that I'd tell? I don’t _have_ anyone to tell.”

“Well, why don’t you?” James asks, and it’s a desperate, careless response meant to divert from the topic.

“Because of the war,” Isco frowns thinly, “If you haven’t noticed. Don’t you have war up there where you’re from?”

James turns away, panic and regret evident in those dark, doe-like eyes. Isco feels his anger dissipate as quickly as it had flared, leaving behind only a gauche silence that hangs heavily between them.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Isco is the first to speak, “I’ve been going through a—rough patch, I guess. And how were you supposed to know, right? You're not from here.”

“I’m grateful for your help, I really am,” James responds carefully, “But if I’m troubling you in anyway, please—”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that,” Isco interjects quickly, “I just figured that maybe if I knew more—I only want to help, that’s all.”

Another stretch of silence passes, before Isco finally relents. "Alright, fine. You don't have to say anything. There's not much here, I'm sure you can tell. I live alone. I've lost family. I'm trying my best to just get by. But I'm willing to open my home to you, with only one condition. I'm going to try and— _trust_ you—" He winces at the word a bit, but carries on without too significant of a lapse. "—to tell me the things I actually _need_ to know. Things that are going to affect me, or my house, or my dog. And your business is yours—Is that fair? Can you do that?"

James nods shyly and smiles, and it appears sincere, although the contentedness of his expression soon transitions to embarrassment, as his stomach makes a pitiful, whining sound. Isco snickers despite his best efforts not to, sympathetic towards his guest who must be hungry, considering he has slept the day away and missed every meal.  


“I don’t exactly have a grand selection,” he says, motioning for his guest to follow, “But I can make you something, if you like.”

In the kitchen, Isco cuts a thick slice of rye bread and heats up a bowl of stew that he had made for dinner earlier. He sits across from James at the kitchen table, sipping on water and trying not to stare while the other boy ate, his starvation evident.

Isco wishes he could offer more, but times are tough, and there is little he can do even for himself. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and James notices, settling his spoon down and rubbing self-consciously at the corner of his lips.

“If there’s anything I can do for you,” he says after a moment of contemplation, “To make things easier—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Isco responds swiftly, “Just focus on getting better. I can take care of the rest.”

“I do feel better,” the boy smiles, and Isco notes that color has returned to his cheeks, and his eyes are sharp and his words clear. “And I owe you my life.”

“Don’t be dramatic. You don’t owe me anything,” Isco mumbles and averts his eyes, but the boy remains persistent.

“I could think of worse places to end up. Worse people to meet.”

Isco tenses at the thought, of this boy battered and bloodied deep in the woods where no one would find him—maybe except for wolves, bears, or looters who would be undoubtedly less kind.

“You’re safe here,” he says, his hand instinctively reaching for his shoulder, where the strap of his rifle would be. “I can keep you safe.”

James smiles sheepishly, eyes dropping to his half-eaten meal. “Now, who’s being dramatic?”

“Still you.” Isco snorts, caught out by the teasing. “And it’s getting to my head too, Jesus!”

James laughs, and it sounds carefree, whimsical, and Isco feels the weight of loneliness and sorrow in his chest lessen ever so slightly.

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad to have met you,” James says, and Isco—despite his hesitancy, skepticism, apprehension—hopes to feel the same.

~~

It rains miserably for the next two days, which is enough to discourage Isco from even stepping outside of the house. And despite numerous attempts at repair, water still trickles down from the roof, and Isco is quick to position the tin buckets he keeps around for this sole purpose, before the rain could further damage the interior of his house. The rhythmic beating of droplets against metal grates at his nerves, but he supposes it’s better than the alternative.

He has enough firewood and food in the pantry to last the storm, but being stuck at home does little to quell his nervous energy. James spends his time dozing off by the fire, leafing through a few books and taking short, occasional naps. Isco remembers that his guest usually sleeps during the day—or at least, he heavily insinuated such—and wonders if he is attempting to adjust, so he can be awake when Isco is.

Around noon of the third day, Isco decides to check up on James’ injures, in case blood had seeped through the bandages and the wounds are no longer dry. And to his disbelief, the scratches and burns appear mostly healed—the skin red and tender at some places, but gauze and binding would be an over precaution at this point. James merely shrugs at the other’s surprise, and Isco, with great will-power, does not prod any further.

For dinner, he makes rice and beans with bits of carrots and asparagus, and his rustling in the kitchen must have alerted James, who shuffles out of the blankets by the fire for the first time that night, insisting that he can help. He makes a sad attempt at cutting asparagus with his non-dominant hand, while Isco watches with both incredulity and amusement. And when James fumbles and drops the knife—narrowly evading his foot as it clanks against the ceramic tiles of the kitchen—Isco promptly intervenes, taking his guest by the elbow and sitting him down, before he can injure himself further.

“No offense, but why don’t you let me do this,” Isco says with an impish grin. “If you really want to help, you can—I don’t know—keep the fire going?”

James' lips purse into an almost stubborn pout. “You want me to throw wood into the fire every other hour.”

“And you only need one good arm for that. I have complete faith.”

James laughs but accepts, returning to the disheveled pile of blankets by the fireplace. Isco cuts the asparagus and carrots in a few, swift motions, before throwing them into the pan with the rest of the ingredients. He cooks with an unprecedented sense of urgency, not because he is hungry (food isn’t simply a mean to satiate hunger anymore—at least, not for the past few meals). Rather, he finds the thought of having company inexplicably inviting, particularly dinner before a comfortable fire with his strange guest who offers more questions than answers.

~~

“Where are you going?” James asks, poking his head from beneath the quilts.

“To town,” Isco says, pulling at the laces of his boots. He had hoped to avoid disturbing his guest at such an early hour of the morning.

“Why?” James rubs at his eyes.

“For food and supplies, now that the rain has stopped.” Isco swings his bag over his shoulder, two silver candlesticks clinking inside. They should be set for the next two weeks if Isco can pawn them off for a fair price.

“I want to go with you.” James pushes aside the covers. His broken arm is still bound between splints, although he has opted to abandon the sling. “Can I?”

“Uh—” Isco briefly hesitates, before deciding that perhaps a walk in the fresh air would do them both good, even though the path to the town can be long and treacherous. “Sure, just layer up. It’s cold in the morning.”

He finds a dark denim jacket, a wool scarf, and combat boots among the clothes he never wears, and James dresses quickly, mindful to be of as little inconvenience as possible. Isco takes the time to put a collar on Messi, who sniffs affectionately at his gloved hands, tail wagging.

They take the path with the least rocks to climb over and nettles to plow through, although it is not necessarily the shortest route. Isco slows his pace for James, who frequently falls a few steps behind, curious eyes fixed to the fleeting mist between the densely packed trees and the blue-gray sky beyond arching, skeletal branches.

“Stay close,” Isco says when James halts to inspect a sparrow’s nest. “You’re gonna get lost, and it’s not exactly safe to be wandering around alone.”

“You’re usually alone,” James retorts, catching up to Isco in a few, long strides.

“Yeah, well, I can take care of myself.”

“And I can’t?”

“Do you honestly think, with your broken arm and your complete lack of clue that— _Christ_!” It strikes him so suddenly, this desperate urge to protect. There is something about James' demeanor—his concise, measured questions that seem slightly displaced—that hide an innocence so alien, so unaware of its unlikely existence in a world devoid of goodness. 

Isco feels the nagging weight of responsibility, and rather than arguing, he takes James by the wrist and drags him along the dirt matted road. Earth is not a home to this strange boy, and the least Isco can do is to keep him safe during his stay. In return, Isco would gladly accept any good karma he might earn from whatever celestial power that governs the universe at large. The war is likely to rage on, and his family is most certainly dead. Sleeping easier at night is all Isco is really asking for here. 

~~

The sun is high in the sky by the time they reach the small town at the edge of the woods. The church bell echoes dully in the backdrop of the otherwise quiet streets, with most of the townspeople opting to stay in the safety of their homes. A small group of children kicks around a dusty, taped-up football in the courtyard of an elementary school. The ball bounces over the fence when a boy attempts a long-ranged strike. It rolls to Isco, who toes it at the right moment of the bounce, balancing the ball briefly with the laces of his boots, before side-footing it back over the iron fence encircling the school. The children crowd at the partition, praising Isco with laughter and cheers. James smiles too, with such warmth and admiration that Isco feels blood rushing to his ears and cheeks. 

At the center of town is the general store where Isco pawns the candlesticks for lentils and barley, red beans and rice. He restocks on bandages and rubbing alcohol, and picks up a few rifle cartridges, just in case. The storeowner—Casillas—is a decent enough guy, who does what he can to help those in need and never cheats people out of their money. He knew Isco and his family before the war had broke out, although they can hardly be considered friends now. Isco’s visits to town are few and far in between and only driven by the most basic of needs. He has little interest in pleasantries, gossip, or whatever social interactions the small, shaken town has to offer these days. 

“It’s rare to see you with a friend,” Casillas says with a sly smile, as Isco shuffles around his bag to make more room for supplies. James is too busy inspecting a grandfather clock to take notice of the conversation.

“I’ve never seen him around before,” the storekeeper continues. “Is he a traveller? A refugee? Those clothes seem a bit short on him.”

“For Christ’s sake, what is it to you?” Isco feels his patience thinning. “Don’t you have more important things to worry about?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Casillas concedes, although his infuriating smirk remains. “I was just curious. Would that be all?”

Isco mumbles a curt farewell, before making his way towards the entrance. He taps James on the shoulder to get his attention, and the boy understands quickly to follow him outside. The shopkeeper’s bell jingles as they step onto the cobblestone streets, and Isco—deciding that he had gotten everything he needed—informs his guest that they will be returning home.

He had hoped that their journey to town would be hassle-free, but the tide of fortune soon ebbs as they reach the bank of the river where the roads diverge. Isco curses under his breath when he hears resounding laughter, shouts, and clattering of metal that vaguely resembles the beating of a drum. Three boys—only slightly older than Isco—halts where the roads conjoin, the worn tires of their bikes leaving skid marks on the dusty ground. They are all tall, lean, but well-muscled, dressed in old leather and ripped denim with metal spikes sown in. Even from ten feet away, Isco can smell smoke, weed, and alcohol drifting in the gentle breeze. 

He tenses, tugging at the strap of his rifle and shushing James when he tries to ask what is going on.

“Look who decided to grace us with his presence,” says one of the boys, the obvious leader of the small band. The sleeve of his jacket is torn at the seam, revealing more intricate tattoos that Isco would care to remember. 

Isco had met Sergio from pickup football matches after school. He stuck around them for awhile, with Antonio more specifically, before joining this troublesome lot. To Sergio's left is Álvaro, a former classmate a few years above Isco, and to his right Fernando, relatively new to town, but Isco has learned his name by now.

“Hey, isn’t that Antonio’s kid brother?” Álvaro smiles sweetly, but Isco knows better than to trust it. His words are slurred, and he looks a bit woozy. It’s obvious that they had been drinking, although Sergio appears the most lucid of the three. “Francisco, am I right?”

Isco pinches his nose at the use of his full name, although he chooses not to dignify with a response.

“What’s with the sour look? Still too good for your old _hombres_?” Sergio says as if they had still been friends, grinning with an almost feral charm.

“You’re blocking the road.” Isco finally speaks—eyes steady and chin leveled. He knows better than to show any signs of nervousness, because they can sense it like blood in water.

“What about your friend there?” Álvaro quips with a giggle, eyeing James shamelessly. “Wanna see how the other side lives?”

“Shut up.” Isco reaches for his rifle, edging closer to James. “He’s with me.”

Sergio’s handsome features darken, lips thinning to a grim line. “One hell of an ego you have, you little fuck. I would personally put you in your place if you weren’t Antonio’s kid brother.”

“He’s not worth it.” The quiet blonde—Fernando—sniffs with an air of snobbery. He’s looking at Isco’s rifle more than Isco. “Let’s just go. The others are waiting.”

Sergio unleashes a barking laugh, mood shifting as swiftly as summer storms. Isco raises a protective arm in front of James as the older boys cycle past. 

“No one’s gonna come back to that pathetic empty house of yours,” Sergio offers his final taunt. “So if you ever get that stick out of your ass, let us know.”


	3. Chapter 3

Their encounter with Sergio’s gang leaves a bitter taste in Isco’s mouth, and James must have sensed it, keeping quiet and up to pace for the remainder of the journey home, before they break off into their usual routines. Isco tends to the house, does the chores, and boards up parts of the window that had been damaged by the storm, while James stays by the fire, feeding it pieces of wood from time to time. The strange boy tries to help with the repairs when the sun is close to setting, but is sternly sent back to the house when he nearly knocks over the ladder that supported Isco's weight. 

For dinner, they eat bread and lentil soup. Messi—the gluttonous traitor that he is—has warmed up to James immensely since the first morning Isco had brought the strange boy home. The Labrador leans his body against James, chin perched on the boy's knee. He whines and wags his tail, while James furtively picks out peas and carrots from the soup and feeds them to the dog.

“Don’t do that,” Isco chides, “He’s gonna beg for food every time now.”

“But what if he’s hungry,” James says, laughing as Messi licks at his fingers.

“He’s a dog.” Isco leans over and shoos the canine away. “He’s always hungry.”

Messi concedes with a low growl, sauntering into the kitchen to scavenge for any scraps Isco might have dropped while preparing dinner. James relaxes his shoulders and crosses his legs, leaning his weight against the heel of his palm. He looks expectantly at Isco, who—for a brief moment—almost wishes that Messi had stuck around, being a pest. The dog at least took some of the awkwardness away.

“Who were those people? The ones at the crossroad?” James decides to contribute to conversation, even though the topic is hardly anything Isco would like to discuss.

“Guys I used to go to school with.” He waves a dismissive hand. “No one important.”

“Why don’t you like them?” James insists, and Isco frowns, pinching his brows in thought. The question is simple, but the explanation requires assessment and tactful wording, especially considering the significant amount of history he must condense. 

“They’re just not very good people,” Isco says eventually. “Everyone around here has lost a lot in the past few years, but that’s no excuse for being complete assholes.”

Sergio didn’t exactly have a dream life before the war either. His mother abandoned him and his siblings when he was three, and his father was a good for nothing drunk who couldn’t keep a job to feed himself, let alone his children. He was killed not long after the war broke out, by a wayward missile that landed just outside of town. He wasn’t much of a father, but he was the only parental figure Sergio and his siblings had. And after he was gone, they were—in a strange way—liberated. Sergio’s brother joined the army, his sister the church, and Sergio found his own niche among other young people who had also lost their families. Álvaro’s parents were field doctors who died overseas. Fernando just appeared one day, and everyone assumed he was a refugee from the city that was burnt down.

There are others too among their rowdy crowd—Cesc, Jesús, Villa, Silva—all former acquaintances in one way or another. They live outside of their empty homes more often than not, sleeping under bridges and abandoned shacks. They cycle from town to town and swindle, steal, and forcibly take whatever they need. They eat what they can and sell anything that’s worth a penny. And the rest, they set ablaze in a giant bonfire by the river, where they congregate to smoke, drink, dance, and sing. 

“They’re unpredictable and dangerous,” Isco concludes, “They destroy for fun, laugh to forget, and they don’t have anyone left to care about, or to care for them. It’s a shame, but it’s also not my problem.”

James is lying on his side, head propped against a stack of pillows and watching Isco intently like a child listening to a bedtime story.

“Why did you help me?” he asks. “I wasn’t exactly your problem either.”

“I was curious, I guess.” Isco shrugs. “You were in a crater.”

“Oh.” There is a touch of disappointment in the way James’ eyes flicker to the fire. Or perhaps, it is reservation, Isco isn’t sure. He has been better at it lately, respecting his guest’s decided secrecy.

“You also never tried to break into my house,” Isco continues, “And I like to give people the benefit of the doubt.”

“They broke into your house?”

“They thought the house would be empty.” Isco tosses a piece wood into the fire, watching the edges darken against the flames. “It was the first time I fired the rifle. I didn’t hit anyone, but I managed to scare them away. They know not to come here anymore.”

“What happened to your family?” James asks, and it’s not exactly a fair question considering how little the strange boy is willing to share with Isco. But then again, Isco supposes that his story isn’t exactly unique. It’s the story of everyone forced to live through these terrible times.

“They’re not here anymore. Because of the war.”

“When did it start?”

“I don’t exactly know when it started, but for me, it was three years ago. We were there when the city burnt down. My parents, my brother, and me.”

James bites into his lip, perhaps realizing the eggshells that they are treading on. "“If you don’t want to talk about it, you don't have to."

“No, it is what it is,” Isco says, “We were unfortunate to be in the city that day.”

James shifts atop of the bedding, clearly uncomfortable. Isco sips at his water, the crackle of the fire sounding infinitely loud against their silence.

“But let’s not dwell on death,” Isco decides, setting his cup down gently beside him. “There’s enough of that around.”

He pushes himself to his feet, before approaching the mantle above the fireplace and taking a small wooden carving of a porcupine in his hands.

“My father made it,” he explains, “He was a carpenter. He built this house for my mother after they got married, and he made the tables, the bed, the chairs—everything in this house—with his own hands. And after Antonio and I were born, he made toys.”

Isco finds the wooden chest on the lowest shelf of the bookcase and removes the dusty rag draped over it. The chest is beautifully carved from the finest mahogany, the sides engraved with images of dragons and lions and heroes braving stormy waves. Isco opens the chest, the metal hinges screeching in protest despite his caution. James shifts closer and peers curiously inside.

Isco takes out a train set, cars, trucks, and figurines of animals all made from wood. Some had broken pieces and chipped paint, although the evidence of use does not take away from the attention and artistry. There had been more—so many more mementos left by his father over the years—which Isco had to sell and even burn at times when leaving his home had been too dangerous.

“I kept my favorite,” he tells James. “The porcupine, the rabbit, and the owl—I liked the animals the most, even though they don’t do much.”

“They’re beautiful,” James says, edging closer. He takes a small wooden fox into his palms and holds it with such care, as if it were made of glass.

“I’ve always thought so.” Isco smiles despite the ache in his heart. “They were too beautiful to be toys for two rowdy boys. I didn’t want Antonio to play with them because he wrecked everything he touched. He was fine with it though. He liked the cars and trains and airplanes more.”

“What’s this?” James asks, when a small carving falls out of an open compartment of the truck. He takes it between his thumb and forefinger, a simple statuette of a bird that could be mistaken for a peanut.

“I—uh—made that one a long time ago.” Isco winces a little. “It’s not very good.”

James laughs, but not meanly. “No, no. I like it.”

“You can have it, if you want,” Isco says without thinking and feels foolish immediately. Why would anyone desire something so useless and absurd, let alone gift it to someone else? But for some unfathomable reason, Isco wants James to have it, wants to share everything he possibly can with James. "Or you can have a less stupid one. I don't know."

But James shakes his head, his smile appearing genuine as he closes his fingers around the small figurine. “But I'd rather have this one.”

Isco feels his stomach flutter at the way James' lips curve and part, his smile reaching his eyes. He knows better than to get ahead of himself, to hope for too much, but knowing and abiding doesn't always go hand in hand. 

~~

Isco rises early, straps on his boots, and zips his jacket to the very top of his collar, before stepping outside into the chilly November morning. He unfastens the heavy lock securing his front gate, the dark metal cool and damp from the morning dew, when he sees James emerging from the house, clad in the thickest jacket Isco has to offer. The strange boy does not ask for permission to follow this time. 

The path through the woods is winding and narrow, flanked by thick, ancient trees with wiry branches that arch across the ashen sky. Isco does not deviate from his usual route, pushing past brambles and nettles as tall as his chest. James keeps up to pace without too much of a struggle, although Isco remains mindful not to lose the strange boy amidst the mazy woods. 

They reach a clearing where a cluster of smooth rocks and the remnants of a fire lay untouched since the last time Isco had ventured this far. The river is close enough so that the sound of rushing water is within earshot. 

“Hold on,” he says, halting in his stride so suddenly that he receives a nudge from James. “I’ve set traps around here. Be careful where you step.”

They hear a rustle in a nearby huckleberry shrub and find a rabbit—speckled brown with a white belly—caught in a snare. It’s too small to last a decent meal, and Isco would normally release the younger animals, but he has more than just himself to care for these days, so harsher decisions ought to be made.

“You might not want to look,” he warns as he kneels beside the struggling animal. James doesn’t insist on watching, but he doesn’t move away either.

“This won’t upset me, if you’re worried about that. I’ve gone hunting with my brothers before.”

These words ring in Isco’s ears for the rest of the day, although he does not mention it until they have checked every snare and deadfall trap Isco had set and collected what they could. They return to the clearing and light a fire, shining golden and bright as the sun descends behind the mountain slope.

“You have brothers,” Isco says without much of a preamble. He isn't sure if he's overstepping boundaries this time but supposes that James always has the freedom to stay silent if he wishes. 

James offers a meek smile as he turns the rabbit languidly over the fire. “I do.”

What are their names, Isco wants to ask. How old are they? What are they like? But he bites his tongue, for fear of pushing the strange boy away with his boundless curiosity.

“I have many brothers, actually,” James continues after a brief moment of consideration. “And sisters.”

“How many?”

“More than I know. More than I can count.” James laughs, although Isco can’t exactly tell if he’s joking or not.

“I hope your parents can keep track,” he says, and James’ easy smile wavers, his brows furrowing in thought.

“We don’t have parents, or at least, not that I know of. We aren't born the way you are, the result of two people coming together, combining parts of themselves to create someone new. We sort of—just existed.”

“How?” Isco asks, and James shrugs. 

“No one really knows.”

“So is everyone—the same age?”

“No, not at all. Some of us are older—much older. Some were born recently.”

Isco pauses for a short moment, keeping his skepticism checked and his mind open. “How were you born?”

James folds his legs to his chest, his chin resting on his knees. He bites thoughtfully at his lower lip, the sparks from the fire reflecting fantastically in those dark, opaque eyes. “I remember being cold. So cold that I could barely move.”

The boy frowns as he strives to summon memories that evidently brought him little joy. Isco can’t exactly relate—having no recollections of his own birth—but he supposes he can empathize with the distress and trauma one might experience at the origin of consciousness. 

"There wasn’t any light either,” James continues, “Or maybe I couldn’t see, I’m not sure. My body didn’t feel solid, and every time I tried to move, there was nothing there. And suddenly, I felt something collapse at the center—which I can only assume was my heart, because it started beating then. I could see light finally—silver, blue, and orange—as my body came together piece by piece, strings of light forming my muscles, specks of gold covering my skin. My legs felt weak, but I could stand, and when I looked around, I realized I was alone. But there I was. That’s how I came to be.”

“And then what?” 

“Cristiano was the first to find me in that cloud of light. He, Gareth, and Karim were returning from a hunt. They brought me home with them, and I became their youngest brother.”

“And that’s what usually happens? How families and societies are formed?”

“More or less,” James nods, leaning back until his elbows support his weight. Isco subconsciously mimics him, shifting to his side on the tarp they had spread over the dirt matted ground. “It’s pretty random where we end up and with whom we end up with. It can be lonely for awhile, but the ones we do find, they become our families—brothers and sisters—because we were all born from the same clouds, the same light and matter.”

“How old are you, exactly?” Isco asks, scratching at the scruff beneath his chin as he stifles a yawn. He feels his eyes growing heavy, his own voice echoing in his ears. 

“Not very, I suppose,” James laughs, “Cris and everyone else—I feel like they try to act older than they are. They treat me like a kid.”

“I’m twenty-two—if the number means anything,” Isco says, his head dipping against his folded arm. “I can’t decide if it’s too young or too old.”

~~

The fire had burnt out sometime during the night, and even in his sleep, Isco can feel the chill of the morning air brushing against his face. He shifts and feels the resistance of a warm body against his, too large to be that of his Labrador retriever. It takes a moment for Isco to adjust, the fleeting images from his dreams dissipating like morning mist, as memories from the night before flood into his mind. 

James is still sound asleep when Isco finally realizes what has happened, his arm draped across the smaller boy’s waist, forehead pressed against the back of his neck.

“Oh,” Isco says, jolting awake. “Shit!”

Upon the disturbance, James clutches tighter to the fabric of Isco’s shirt. Isco feels a shiver creep down his spine, as the dull pressure of fingertips drifts across the flat of his stomach.

“Oh God,” Isco pushes himself to sit, dislodging James and waking him up. “Did we just—sleep here all night?”

“I guess so,” James says hazily.

“Christ, I can’t believe it.” Isco jumps to his feet, looking around frantically to find his belongings all here. He slings his rifle around his shoulder, his knuckles white against the leather strap. “How did I not wake up?”

James offers no response, yawning and rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm.

“Sorry about this—I was just so tired,” Isco stammers, “That was bad. I—uh—”

“What’s so bad about it?” James laughs. “It’s not like we did anything.”

Isco feels blood rushing to his cheeks. “That’s not what I meant!” he practically shouts. “We could’ve been attacked by looters or bears! We could’ve _froze_!”

“But we’re both okay though.” James doesn’t exactly meet his eyes, his voice muted and irritatingly calm. 

Isco feels a sudden cold brush his neck, just as he begins to contemplate on how oddly warm it had been for an early November morning.

~~

It takes two weeks for James’ arm to fully heal—or at least enough for him to do menial tasks around the house without causing more harm than good. He doesn’t mention it though, and neither does Isco ask. Simply, one morning, Isco wakes to the scent of eggs and wheat toast and finds James in the kitchen, fumbling with a jar of apricot preserves. 

He helps with the cleaning too, when dust inevitably gathers from the cracks in the windows and the gaps beneath the doors. James works quickly, but not without thought or care, tending to each item on the shelf until the picture frames and candleholders gleam in the dim light of the fire, and the pages of books appear crisp and clean.

Isco watches as James straightens frames along the walls, wiping away dust that obscures the images beneath—a young Isco clinging to his mother’s dress, Antonio hunting waterfowl with their father, two brothers laughing among the leaves of a large apple tree.

“This is the house I grew up in,” Isco says as he approaches, causing the unsuspecting boy to startle. He traces the wooden borders that house memories of a time when the leaves were thick and green and the fruits were golden. “Funny, isn’t it?”

~~

“My mom tended the garden,” Isco says one night. “We had harvests all year round—apricots and artichokes in the spring, melons in the summer, green beans and cauliflower in the fall, and parsnips in the winter. We ate what we could and sold what was left. Food was never an issue, even though we were far from being wealthy.”

James sits crossed legged beside him on the bedding. They are not quite touching, but Isco is close enough to feel the warmth emanating not just from the yellow flames of the fireplace.

“There was an apple tree that my dad planted,” he continues, “It blossomed white in the spring and bore so much fruit by the end of summer, that we had enough to share with every kid in school. It wasn’t too tall, but the trunk was thick and the branches were sturdy. Antonio and I—we would take turns climbing and shaking the fruits off.”

Isco rolls onto his stomach, his head inches away from James’ thigh, resisting the urge to lean against it. “I wish I could show you. But there’s no point in wishing that. Nothing grows here now.”

“Have you tried?” James asks, and the question surprises him. 

“No,” Isco says, contemplating on a reason and finding none that can be explained so simply. “I just never imagined anything growing here without my mother. The garden reminds me of her, just like the woodcarvings remind me of my dad. A lot of things remind me of Antonio. He was my brother, my best friend”

James makes a small sound of understanding but stays respectfully silent. Isco wishes he wasn’t the only one talking for the majority of their conversations.

“I didn’t see them die,” he continues after a brief pause, “We got separated in the crowd as everyone tried to escape the city. I hoped—for a very long time—that they were still alive. I knew that if they were, home would be the first place they’d go. So I’ve waited, for three years now. And a small part of me still hopes, even though I ask myself everyday—why am I still waiting?”

Isco swallows thickly, unsure of why he had decided to tell James something so private, so heart wrenching, that he hasn’t dared to utter aloud even to himself. Perhaps it is because someone ought to know—he figures—in case fire rains from the skies once more and destroys what is left of his broken home. He doesn’t want to die without telling his story at least once.

Isco falls asleep by the fireplace that night and wakes to James next to him, warm against his back. He feels like a complete idiot—curses and apologizes—even though this isn’t the first time he had fallen asleep while talking to James.

“This is your house. You can sleep here if you want,” James insists, “It’s warmer, with two people. And a fire.”

And Isco would have agreed if it weren’t for the stir in his stomach and the blood rushing through his veins that prompt him to escape into the kitchen, under the pretense of preparing breakfast.

~~

Snowfall marks the first day of winter, as thick gray clouds tint the lifeless sky so dark that night and day appear nearly inseparable. Isco returns from town that evening with eggs and a respectably sized quail, only to finds James in the dust-ridden garden, staring silently at the falling snow. 

He approaches the boy and tries to follow his line of sight towards the blank heavens above. “You can’t see much from here,” he says, wondering if James is looking for stars. “What are you trying to find?”

James responds with a small smile, thin and with a touch of sadness that is nearly imperceptible if it weren't for his dark, expressive eyes. But Isco doesn’t piece it together until hours later, when he is on the brink of sleep by the fireplace. He feels James shifts beside him, pushing to stand.

“You don’t have to leave,” Isco says, without much thought or time to regret the carelessness of his decision. “If you want to stay—I don’t know why you would, this place is hell, and you probably miss your family—but I wouldn’t mind at all, if you decide to stay awhile longer.”

James freezes in his stride and looks at Isco. He could simply be getting up for water—for all Isco knew—but these words were too important to be swallowed by hesitancy, just in case this is Isco's only chance to express his sentiment.

Isco props himself on an elbow as James returns to the bedding, kneeling and edging closer until he is hovering above the smaller male. He catches Isco’s lips in a kiss, and Isco kisses back, opens willingly and savors the soft lips, the insistent tongue, and the warm breath against his own. James slides a hand along Isco’s side, fingers dipping beneath the hem of his shirt and sending shivers down his spine .

“Wait,” Isco pants, breaking away. “This isn’t why—I asked you to stay.”

“Do you want me to stop?” James asks, and Isco blinks at him, his mind drawing blank. Reluctance on his part is not something he has ever considered.

“No,” he says finally, finding his words useless and inane, “No, don’t stop.”

And James wastes little time in returning to where he had left off, pressing against Isco until the smaller male is lying flat beneath him. He mouths at the skin below Isco’s ear, nipping and kissing along his neck and collarbone. Isco shudders as deft hands roam freely across his hips, stomach, and chest, peeling his clothes off and tossing them aside.

Isco brings his own shaking hands to the hem of James’ shirt, tugging until the other gets the hint. James separates himself just long enough to pull the fabric over his head, his abs flexing as he stretches. 

Isco feels his breath catch at the sight of the smooth, tanned, unmarred skin—not a single blemish or scar visible from the horrifying circumstances in which they met. He has little time to ponder however, as James lowers his head to the plane of his chest, flicking his tongue over a hardened nipple, before catching it between his teeth. Isco arches and moans as James tugs on the other, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

He feels his pants grow embarrassingly tight, hips jerking involuntarily, desperate for some sort of contact. And when James stills him with a firm hand against his stomach, Isco can only whine in frustration. 

“Q-Quit teasing and just—” he exhales, breath hiccupping and face aflame. James’ mouth curves against his skin, before giving his tender nipple a parting lick.

He leans forward to kiss Isco again, just in time to muffle a sigh as he slips a hand beyond the elastic of his pants. Isco could do little but grip at James’ shoulders and moan into his mouth, his thighs parted and trembling as an assertive hand fondles his cock.

Isco lifts his hips when James pulls at his waistband, undressing him completely. He then kneels between Isco’s legs, sitting on his heels and watching with a strange mixture of fascination and arousal as Isco’s flushed cock twitches against his quivering stomach.

A new wave of embarrassment washes over Isco, but before he can urge the boy to get on with it, James ducks between his thighs, licking a long, experimental strip up the length of his cock.

“Oh God—” Isco drops his head against the bedding, eyes pinched shut and mouth wordlessly open. James grows more confident at the reaction, wrapping his lips around the head, sucking and teasing with his soft, talented tongue.

Isco arches and keens, gripping onto short, thick hair as James takes as much as he can into his mouth. Isco feels a feather light touch trail his perineum, before the gentle pressure of a thumb pressing against his quivering entrance.

“Can I?” James asks between sloppy, wet kisses along his shaft. “Is that okay?”

Isco lets out a small groan, breath hitching. “Cabinet behind the mirror,” he eventually manages, “Second shelf to the left.”

He moves onto his elbows and knees by the time James returns with a small bottle of oil. He hears a rustling behind him and looks over his shoulder to see James unbuttoning his pants and dropping them to his ankles. Isco’s entire body stirs in anticipation.

He feels the bedding dip as James drapes his body over his, lips finding the back of his neck. He groans the moment he is breached, as slick fingers prod past the tight ring of muscle, curving and urging him to relax. James prepares him patiently and dutifully, mindful of every gasp, shiver, or sign of discomfort.

“Come on.” Isco exhales through gritted teeth, knuckles white against the quilt beneath his palms. “J-Just do it—It’s okay if you hurt me a bit.”

“I don’t want to though,” James says in a small, earnest voice, and Isco feels dumbfounded, ridiculous. His heart flutters and aches at the same time.

But before Isco can sort out any of the whirlwind of emotions, another moan is forced out of him as James rubs against a spot that sends pleasure up his spine. 

“Fuck.” Isco grinds against the fingers, speeding things up even if James is reluctant to. “Just fuck me already. I need it— _please_!”

James withdraws his hand, leaving Isco achingly empty. He hears the other boy slicking himself up, before pressing the blunt end of his cock against Isco’s willing entrance.

“O-Oh,” Isco bites his lip, as James fills him slowly, inch-by-inch. He is by no means a virgin, but it has been a really fucking long time since anyone has taken him. 

James holds still for Isco to adjust and waits some more until the latter is swearing again, caught between a demand and a plea for the other to move. James rocks his hips at first, pushing and pulling in shallow thrusts before working up to a rhythm that makes Isco sob in both pleasure and relief. 

His elbows give beneath him, his face buried in the quilt. James sprawls across his back, threading his fingers into Isco’s hair and turning his head so that their lips can meet. They kiss while they fuck, and it’s almost too much for Isco to handle. When James tightens his other hand around Isco’s cock and pumps to their steady rhythm, Isco feels his resolve crumble, his moan ragged and desperate as he comes all over his stomach and chest.

James holds him as he trembles through his climax, before gripping his hips and urging him to turn around. Isco is slack and boneless and too fucked out to protest and doesn’t realize that his eyes are wet until James kisses away a stray tear.

“Come on.” Isco says, voice shaky and hoarse and only partially due to moaning so loudly before. “Come for me.”

And James does so moments after, burying his face as his hips stutter, his gasp hot and sweet against Isco's ear. 

~~

Isco wakes to a shiver and a dull, throbbing pain in his lower back. It takes a moment for him to orient to his surroundings, noticing the odd angle of light peering through the window and the dying flames at the fireplace. He has no shirt on, no pants, and when he swipes an arm into the space adjacent to him, he realizes that he is indeed alone.

“James?” he calls out, only to be greeted with stony silence.

Isco pulls on his discarded shorts before darting to the kitchen, ignoring the ache between his legs as well as the rising panic in his chest. 

“James?” he tries again, even though the kitchen is empty and the stove is off and everything appears untouched since the night before.

He stumbles outside without a shirt or shoes, the cold wind blowing right through him as gravel bites into the souls of his feet. He rounds a sharp corner before finally spotting James, crouching by an area of loose dirt in his front yard. Messi—his only company—releases a solitary bark when he sees his master.

Snowflakes speckle the air around them but vanish before they can reach the ground. Isco feels his chest relax, freeing the breath he had unknowingly held. He approaches James, who raises his eyes to meet Isco's, brows pinched delicately in thought.

Isco wants to call his name again but feels his words evaporate from his tongue, when he notices a small green bud sprouting from the soil between James’ palms.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OK, definitely a longer fic than I intended. Thank you lovely readers for your patience and wonderful feedback. Hopefully, two more chapters, and it will be a wrap up!

“Your friend came in earlier this week. Strange kid, isn’t he?”

Isco barely bats an eye as he counts his coins. He only needs a matchbook and some candles from the store, and he wishes that Casillas didn’t try to talk to him every chance he gets.

“He picked out some seeds—tomato, pepper, cauliflower. Not exactly the time of year to start a vegetable garden.”

“Jesus, I don’t care,” Isco grits his teeth, searching for the dime that had fallen through the hole in his pocket. He feels it trapped between the layers of his coat. If only he can get the little sucker out, then this tiresome conversation can come to an end. “He can do whatever he wants.”

“There’s a nice plot of land by your house in the woods, if I remember correctly. Used to be a garden.” Casillas takes a brief pause, obviously attempting to elicit a reaction. Isco stubbornly does not meet his eyes. “Is it safe to assume that James is staying with you for the time being?”

“You should really mind your own business."

“People talk, you know?” Casillas says with a touch of sympathy that can also be interpreted as patronizing. Isco feels his blood broil. 

“Yeah, no thanks to you!” He smacks the dime on the counter with more force than necessary. Casillas is not deterred, however. 

“He came in around the same time as Sergio.”

And that is enough to catch Isco off guard, his aloof veneer failing as his face flickers between several complicated emotions—surprise, concern, skepticism, disdain. Casillas’ smirk—as always—is infuriating.

“Their interaction was minimal,” he says before Isco could swallow his pride to ask. “You trained him well.”

“It’s called common sense, which you’re obviously lacking in,” Isco mumbles, as he swings his sack over his shoulder. “I don’t know why you choose to have anything to do with Sergio.”

“He’s not as bad as you make him out to be,” Casillas says without a hint of irony, leaving Isco groaning in disbelief.

“He steals from you!”

“I’m helping him.”

“You let him steal from you. You let all of them.” 

And it's Casillas’ turn to experience an unpleasant twist in their conversation—a rare turning of the table. 

“We’re at war," Isco says, "Times are tough. I get it, but there are so many people who still live honestly, who haven’t given up. Doesn’t that say _something_ about Sergio?”

“People handle loss differently.” Casillas shrugs. “He’s a good kid at heart. He and Antonio were inseparable when they were younger. And you two were friends at some point too—played football together and everything.”

“That was a very long time ago,” Isco responds dourly.

“People change. It's a part of life.” Casillas’ faint smile is almost that of sad reminiscence. Isco thinks it’s pathetic. 

“You don’t honestly think Sergio will set himself straight, or that he’d repay even a fraction of the kindness you’ve shown him?”

“Is that why you’re helping James?” Casillas raises a brow. “Because he will repay you one day in kind?”

Isco opens his mouth, only for his words vaporize. While it’s true that James had came into his life lost, injured, and without even the clothes on his back, but what he has offered by simply being _himself_ —the warm nights by the fire, the honest laughter and smiles, the anecdotes of a world beyond their own—Isco can’t begin to fathom the importance, let alone explain it to someone as absurd as Casillas, who knows absolutely nothing about his life, past or present. This entire conversation has been a waste of time that Isco is never getting back.

“No, because he’s not a complete asshole!” he shouts angrily, storming out of the humble store without waiting for a response. “Fuck you and good day.”

~~

Winter feels long this year, even though it is only the middle of January. The paths through the woods are icy and obscured, the heavy snow blankets over the trees, threatening to break their dark, brittle branches. Isco pulls his coat tight and clutches to his wool scarf, waddling through the untouched hills of white and blinking away the snowflakes that catch onto his lashes. No one in their right mind would venture into the woods under such unforgiving conditions, and Isco is partially relieved.

At best, it will take double the time for him to reach home, so Isco—against his better judgment—allows his mind to wander. He feels plagued by a lingering twinge beneath his ribcage, a vague discomfort difficult to pinpoint or shake off, which he wholly blames on Casillas.

What does he know anyway, Isco thinks bitterly as he kicks away a snow-covered branch that catches onto his boot. They barely knew each other before the war—their age gap a good decade, so that Casillas had already left school to work in his family’s shop by the time Isco started elementary. Nonetheless, in such a small town, it is impossible to remain complete strangers, though after three years of chosen seclusion, Isco is hardly keen on rejoining old social circles.

War, loss, and desperation can bring out the worst of in humanity, and Isco remembers only too vividly the day Sergio lead his band of lost boys to reap what’s left of his broken home. 

The city had burned for days since it was first lit aflame, the wind carrying dark clouds of smoke for miles beyond the river, covering everything in its path in fiery soot. Only rain could end the savage fire, but not a drop fell until there was nothing left to burn.

Isco slept on the kitchen floor, lived off the food in the pantry, and ate only enough to stay alive. His heart sank as days bled into weeks, and not a sound could be heard beyond his unlocked doors, not even the rustling of rodents or the chirping of birds. Messi stayed close by his side, kept him warm through the frigid nights, and licked at his tears when they inevitably fell. 

He was caught between a choke and a sob, face buried in the soft fur of his Labrador, when the loud bang of his gate being slammed open pierced the silence. He heard the heavy thudding of boots and the voices of young men—ruthless, desperate, wild—flooding into the front yard and carelessly treading into his mother’s delicate gardens. Isco peered through his window to see boys his age, dressed in tatters and face smeared in soot, ripping cauliflowers and cucumbers from the soil, leaving not even the roots. They ate grapes from the vine and hacked open pumpkins and melons with axes taken from the tool shed. They ripped apart the fences and tore out the stakes, lighting a fire right then and there, throwing in anything they cannot eat raw.

Isco cursed under his breath, bolting his front door before knocking over a bookcase to obstruct the entrance. He blew out the candles and grabbed his father’s hunting rifle, before ducking behind the kitchen table that he had turned over. He heard a rhythmic thumping of metal against wood, and didn’t understand what was happening until a fallen branch shattered his window, flooding the living room with thick, ash-covered leaves. Golden apples thudded against the wooden floor, rolling until they hit the edge of the upended table.

Isco swallowed the lump in his throat and ignored panic rising in his chest. He aimed his rifle, every inch of his body hurting— _hating_ —as the wood of his front door was split open from sheer, blunt force.

Soon, the dark, cluttered room was drowning in light, and Isco saw the shadow of a solitary figure before the chaotic backdrop. He had a shaking finger to the trigger when his Labrador unleashed a single bark, startling the intruder.

“Messi?” He heard a familiar voice, his blood turning icy cold as realization sank in. “Come here, boy. Is that you?”

Sergio, Isco thought, as his hands shook with rage and his eyes brimmed with treacherous tears. After all that Antonio has done for him, that Isco’s family has done— _how dare he_?

Isco pulled the trigger, the shot barely missing his former friend, just as he intended. 

“Oh, shit!” Sergio ducked, covering his head. And like the fool he was, he did not run, squinting into the darkness instead until his eyes finally adjusted.

“Isco,” Sergio’s voice was barely a whisper, and Isco cannot forget the older boy’s expression even now. There was no fear, no shame, but a hint of a smile on his lips that was far from disingenuous. It was a smile of relief almost, in a twisted, frenzied way that only Sergio could accomplish.

“Isco. Jesus Christ, Isco,” He rambled—useless, nonsensical words. “I can’t believe it—here. Come here.”

Isco fired another shot when Sergio took a daring step forward, which effectively brought reality back to the older boy.

“Get out!” Isco shouted, his syllables cracking as angry tears finally spilled. “Take your friends and get the fuck out! Or I won’t miss next time!”

The sound of gunshots must have alerted the others, as a second figure appeared at the door, only for Sergio to shove away as he staggered backwards. 

“We have to leave.” Isco heard him say, his voice shaking too now. “This house isn’t empty. They have a fucking gun. We have to leave.”

Sergio and his gang disappeared as quickly as they had come, leaving nothing but sooty footprints in the ground. The garden was barren now, the soil upturned from their frantic pulling and the crushed stalks and vines lay withering in the dust. The apple tree had fallen, its fruits reaped, and branches hacked off for fuel for the fire that continued to burn, casting ashes into the air. 

Isco doused it with water from the well. He thought of his family and wondered whether they were dead or alive, lost among the displaced or hurt among the wounded. But one thing was certain, as the dying flames shrank to nothingness and the light in his eyes dimmed with them. There would barely be a home to come back to now.

~~

So immersed in thoughts he was, Isco barely notices the snow thinning as he nears the last stretch of mile to his house. And once smoke from his chimney is visible in the foggy distance, Isco feels soft, wet dirt beneath his boots and droplets of water falling from the icy branches above. He unbuttons his coat as he approaches his front gate—unlocked as if anticipating his return.

Grass has started growing in patches, the thin blades tender and green as they poke through the loose dirt. Isco is careful not to tread on them as he makes his way across the yard, where James is seated with his back to him, humming a tune that Isco has grown to recognize. The grass around the strange boy is greener and thicker than anywhere else in the garden, surrounding the blossoming sapling that had grown from the small bud that James discovered only weeks ago. 

Isco sits behind James, huddling closer until his knees are on either side of the other boy. He wraps his arms around James’ waist, burying his face into the junction of his neck and shoulder.

“Are you okay?” James asks as Isco kisses the skin beneath his ear.

“I am now,” Isco hums, and only then does James shift in arms, twisting until they are face-to-face, lips aligned.

~~

It had started with that small bud by the front gate, merely a yard away from where the apple tree had fallen. The stump had sat untouched for years, wood split from the dry autumn and roots tangled and rotten beneath the packed dirt. James had loosened the soil around the seedling and given it water by the time Isco made his way to the front yard.

“I had no idea it was here,” Isco said, crouching beside the other boy. “I didn’t think anything would grow—especially now. I doubt it can survive the winter.”

James casted his dark, doleful eyes to the seedling, lips pressed to a thin frown. Isco felt a peculiar discomfort tug at his chest, regret almost for being the bearer of bad news.

“It’s just too cold,” he insisted, rising to his feet. He wanted to apologize but didn’t know for what. He was being pragmatic, after all. False hope would only hurt later on.

Isco went to the village alone that day, chopped wood for the young widow Nagore and cleared her chimney of soot. Nagore offered a few coins and a hot meal in return, which he gladly accepted, knowing that the winter will be frigid and long, and any work and pay should be gratefully received. 

As he descended the steps of her front porch, Isco noticed a few clay pots along her picketed fence, spotted with dirt and dust and remnants of rain. They appeared to be in good condition, although hardly in use.

His mother had similar ones, in which she would plant squash and cucumber blossoms before transferring the seedlings to her gardens. Many of her pots had been smashed when the looters plundered their home, and the rest were aged and cracked from neglect. Until now, Isco was certain that a need for them would never arise.

“I can buy one off you,” Isco said, “If you don’t want them anymore.”

“The pots?” Nagore furrowed her brows. While Casillas would have prodded, Nagore was sensible enough to contain her curiosity, which was why a needless visit to the general store was never a first option for Isco. “I have no need for them. You can take one if you want.”

He thought of James during the long walk home, kneeling before the seeding with his fingers coated in dirt. Isco was well aware that certain plants should never be confined to pots, like poppies and butterfly weeds that had once speckled the rolling hills. But regardless of what the seedling would grow to be, leaving it unprotected throughout the winter would surely result in its death. And it was something James clearly cared about, which by association, Isco cared too.

By the time Isco returned home, James was still huddled in the corner of his front yard. The setting sun colored everything orange and gold, and Isco in that moment could’ve sworn that the strange boy was glowing. He wondered if James had moved even an inch since this morning, before finally casting his eyes to the tenacious seedling sprouting from the soil, which continued to seize the boy’s attention.

Isco’s grip loosened around the clay pot, and it slipped through his fingers, cracking against matted dirt.

“What the—” he stammered, shifting his eyes between the young plant and James. “How is this—Did you do this?”

“I—uh—” James blinked up at him, unsure of how to respond. 

“What did you do?” Isco knelt beside the boy, bringing an unsteady hand to a delicate green leaf. The stem was taller and thicker and already forming it’s first branches. It would grow to be an apple tree, Isco knew before the first flowers blossomed.

James pulled his knees close to his chest, fingers trailing mud at the cuffs of his jeans. “I don’t know,” he said, voice muted as if mistaking Isco's shock for reprimand. “I listened.”

~~

“Come on, come on—Just fuck me—” Isco arches his back and moans, a rambling mess already.

James has three digits inside, twisting and turning while he mouths lazily at the head of Isco’s cock. He doesn’t respond until Isco threads his fingers into his hair, pulling the other boy off. 

“Why are you always in such a hurry?” James pinches his brows, running his tongue over his wet lips. “Let me enjoy myself.”

“Don’t be a fucking tease,” Isco swallows thickly. “I’ve waited a long time.”

James brushes his prostate one last agonizing time before retracting his fingers, pouting. “What are you talking about? We were just getting started.”

“I don’t mean just now,” Isco grits his teeth, redness rising to his cheeks. The gradual smile that forms on James’ face is so stupidly sincere, that Isco almost couldn’t bear to watch it reach completion. He huffs indignantly as he pushes against James’ chest, reversing their positions.

James settles cozily as Isco straddles his waist, running a hand down the smaller male’s side and across his hip.

“You didn’t have to leave this morning.” His voice hitches slightly as Isco slowly sinks down. “You could’ve stayed with me.”

“I had to work, you know that,” Isco bites his lips as he reaches the hilt, grinding experimentally as he adjusts. 

James falls silent, his expression giving absolutely nothing away. Isco wonders if the strange boy understands the concept of work, if people even work where he is from—at least, in the same way that humans do, as a means of survival. He knows next to nothing about James’ world, but a twist in his gut tells him that it must be paradisiacal for someone so genuine and unworldly to exist. James smiles the way that Adam would before banishment from Eden—untouched by war, loss, loneliness, or fear. And it will only be a matter of time before he grows weary of Isco’s war-ravaged country, and Isco will not blame him when the day comes, despite the tightness forming in his chest.

“You should let me take care of you.” James’ voice snaps him back to reality. Isco feels nips and kisses along his neck, as warm hands cradle his ribcage, pulling him closer. “If you’re tired from working all day.”

“Oh, hell. Why didn’t I think of that?” Isco rolls his eyes. “Maybe if you weren’t taking your sweet time.”

James laughs, wrapping an arm around Isco’s before flipping them over again. “Alright, fine. Have it your way.”

He leans in and kisses Isco on the temple, the cheek, and the corner of his mouth before proceeding to fuck him into oblivion, until Isco’s breath is ragged and his eyes are wet, and the words tumbling out are nothing short of honesty.

~~

Sex would be more comfortable if they moved to the bedroom, but Isco would rather sleep on the floor instead, despite the wonders a mattress and a box-spring could do for his lower back. The floor feels safer, and the glow of the fireplace keeps nightmares at bay. Having James around helps him through the night too, and Isco would have consented long ago if James suggested a move. But the strange boy never once complained about the hard, wooden floor beneath the quilted bedding, so Isco doesn’t feel the need to instigate.

James is affectionate, to say the least. They’ve tried their fair share of positions in bed, but James would always bring them to missionary before he comes, so he can watch Isco, kiss him, and have as much of their bodies in contact as possible. It makes Isco slightly uncomfortable—the way his chest swells as if his soul is laid bare—but it’s not enough for him to wish for anything different.

“I want to bring the birds back,” James whispers one night, just as Isco teeters on the edge of sleep. He has kept the little, wooden bird Isco had given him all those months ago, rolling it between his palms as he tended the gardens, almost like a promise. “I want to bring flowers to the gardens, leaves to the trees, apples to the orchards.”

Isco forces his breath steady, squeezes his eyes shut. He pretends to sleep and wonders how often James pretends to sleep next to him, mind occupied by the world he has left behind, brothers and sisters who are undoubtedly awake during the darkest hours of the night, missing him and waiting for his return.

“Would that make you happy?” James asks into the silence, and Isco isn’t sure if he expects a response.

Yes, that would make him happy—Isco thinks—but none of it would matter if he is alone. But asking James to stay feels too selfish.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus! This story has not been easy to write at all, but I can see an end to it now! Two more chapters and it's a wrap up. Thank you so much for your patience, and SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT

“Hey, you! What’s your name?”

Isco had already warmed up and done his stretches, but the chilly October afternoon made him want to run an extra lap instead of waiting around for the rest of his team to finish their preparations. Raúl was at home, sick with the flu, but Antonio seemed confident that they could take on the other team even with a man down. He appeared to have other ideas now, however, when he spotted a brown-haired boy by the edge of the field, dressed in a tattered denim jacket two sizes too big. He looked their age, or Antonio’s age at least. Isco was 10 at the time, younger than most of the boys who played on the pitch across the school. Only last summer did Mama let Isco join Antonio’s pickup team.

“Sergio,” the boy said.

“We’re one short for 6-on-6.” Antonio had his taped-up football tucked beneath an arm. “You play?”

Sergio appeared hesitant at first, pulling at the shredded cuffs of his jacket. The way he shifted his weight around, he looked like a cat about to jump.

“I have a spare change of clothes, if you’re worried about that,” Antonio insisted. “I think they’d fit.”

He kicked the ball to Sergio without waiting for a response.

“We need a center back. You cool with that?”

Sergio stared at the ball for a moment and then Antonio, with the same wary, indiscernible expression. He returned the pass, before breaking into a smile, his entire demeanor appearing to shift. His grin was easy, charismatic, and just on the edge of feral. Isco would grow accustomed to it in the coming years. 

“I can play whatever position you want me to,” Sergio laughed, sprinting towards them.

The boys on the other team were older, bigger, but Isco was used to being crowded on the pitch, mazing through taller bodies with the ball close to his feet. What he wasn’t prepared for was being roughed up, when boys twice his size bullied him off the ball or slid into him hard enough to break his ankles if he weren’t careful. 

“Hey, take it easy, will you?” Antonio stopped the play after Isco was bundled over for the fourth time. The pitch was dry and the grass grew in sparse, yellow patches, so it always hurt when he fell. Isco’s knee was bleeding beneath his sock, and a bruise was already blooming at his hips.

“He tripped on his own!” a chubby, curly-haired boy accused. “I barely touched him.”

“Bullshit, I saw you!” Antonio shoved the boy on the shoulder. Players from both team coalesced where Isco had fallen, some fueling the fire, others trying to pull their more temperamental teammates away.

“What, you expect us to take it easy just because he’s your kid brother?” a dark haired boy spat. “He shouldn’t play if he can’t handle a little contact—that little runt.”

“Don’t fucking talk about my brother like that!” Antonio shouted, but it was Sergio who charged to the center of the crowd, head-butting the rival boy.

Blood sputtered from the injured nose, sinking into the dirt in splotches of ink-black. Hell broke loose afterwards, as two other boys lunged at Sergio, punching him in the stomach and then the face. Sergio refused to fall however, recovering with remarkable speed to deliver his own blows. He took one boy down before another finally pinned him to the ground.

Isco heard Antonio swearing, pulling at the bodies piled before them. A stray elbow split his lip, as blood trickled down his chin.

And if Isco was too young to be playing pickup with a group of rowdy 13-year-olds, he was certainly unprepared for a full on brawl. Fear paralyzed him as he huddled on the ground, hugging at his scraped knees from the tackle earlier. He wanted to drag Antonio out of there, he wanted to cry, but more importantly, he wanted to go home.

Sergio held his own impressively well, though not due to any superior fighting skills. Fear did not touch him, and neither did pain. Blood streaming from his brow had blinded his left eye, and his swollen knuckles cracked dully with each punch he dealt.

Only minutes passed before the rival group retreated, while the other boys dispersed nervously, not wanting to get into trouble. Isco, Antonio, and Sergio remained however, with Sergio lying on his back, panting heavily through his mouth. Antonio stood over him and spat onto the dirt, his saliva foamy pink.

“You are a nut-job, that’s what you are!” Isco heard his brother shout. “What the hell was that?”

Sergio pushed himself to sit, wiping his bloodied nose on the sleeve of his borrowed shirt. He was laughing as if he had the punch line of a joke. “He’s _your_ brother.”

“What?” Antonio grimaced at him.

“He’s your brother,” Sergio repeated, “You would’ve been the one doing this, defending him.”

“You did this for me?” Antonio said, stunned. 

Sergio liked to show gratitude in the strangest way imaginable. This was the first (of many) times where the quirk was brought to light.

“Jesus, look at you,” Antonio sighed. He took Sergio by the line of his jaw, tilting his face side to side. “It doesn’t look too bad. Nothing your mom couldn’t fix, but she’d probably beat your ass if she’s like our mom.”

“I don’t have a mom,” Sergio said plaintively. 

Antonio stared at him for several seconds, long and hard. “What about your dad?”

Sergio didn’t respond this time.

Antonio pulled Sergio to his feet. They were the same height, standing next to each other. Sergio’s hair stood up in tufts, ruffled from the brawl, giving him an extra half-inch. “Why don’t you come home with us?”

Isco rose to his feet too, brushing dirt off of his shorts. Antonio was Isco’s brother, his best friend, but this conversation between him and Sergio on the battered football pitch was the first time when Isco felt like a spectator, looking in.

~~

“What to you see out there?” Isco asks as he wipes the perspiration from his brows, dropping to the vacant spot next to where James is sitting in the garden.

“The same things as you,” James responds with a faint smile.

They had spent the day tilling soil, removing rocks, and building fences around the seedlings that James had sown. The sky is now a murky lilac above orange clouds, and Isco can tell already how dark the night will be. He sees the moon rising above the horizon, a sliver of white so thin that it is nearly invisible. And perhaps that is why James is watching the sky so intently, choosing to remain outside despite the allure of dinner by a warm fire. 

“I see stars sometimes, on clearer nights,” Isco says after a moment’s consideration. “When the sun has completely set.”

“I do too.”

Isco stretches his legs, leaning his weight against his palms. The night air is cool and the grass feels thick and fresh between his fingers. Even the trees surrounding his house have budding leaves sprouting from the branches that were once dark and bare. But in the distance, Isco can see untouched snow and black, winter ice. They are spared from this cruel ebb of nature, living in a snow globe in reverse.

“There used to be more stars,” Isco says, bringing his eyes to where the sky and the mountains touch. “My brother and I, we mapped them when we were younger. You don’t see a lot of them anymore.”

“Doesn’t mean they’re not there.”

Isco laughs, “I suppose that’s true.” He doesn’t speak again until the first star is visible, glowing defiantly in the ashen sky. “Can you see home from here?”

James doesn’t respond, but the absence of words can be an answer on its own. 

“Can they see you?” 

“I don’t know,” James replies this time, “Probably not as clearly as I can see them, but they know I’m safe and well.”

“That’s good,” Isco nods, relishing the information and joining it with all the bits of stories he had learned from James during their time together, hoping to deduce something new. “Can then see _me_?” he asks, realizing somewhat suddenly that his lonesome house in the woods might not be as concealed as he had thought.

“Not through your roof, if that’s what you’re worried about,” James laughs. 

Isco reddens at the implication, barely registering as James edges closer, hugging him around the middle and kissing the skin below his ear. “Wait, wait—” Isco halts their movement, staring nervously at the dimming sky. “Can they see us right now?”

“What does it matter?” James shrugs.

“It’s just that—” Isco winces. “I don’t know what the hell is going on. Who’s up there watching, and what this even all means. I don't know—I don't want anyone knowing until I have a clue, at least.” _And you never bother to tell me anything_ , he wants to add but smartly refrains from doing so.

James appears pensive, before looking up at the sky. “Do you see that— _star_?” He asks, the last word in his question carrying a strange inflection, as if he had changed his mind the last minute. 

“Yeah, that’s Sirius. The brightest star in the sky,” Isco says, although he is not nearly as confident as he sounds. Without any other celestial reference, Isco is only basing his guess—albeit, an educated one—on the premise that the time of year is right and the star is indeed the brightest, the _only_ to pierce through the hazy stratosphere. He wonders if that is where James is from, if his planet orbits around this particular luminous sphere of plasma, holding together Canis Major in the infinite vastness of space.

“Sirius,” James repeats slowly, pronouncing the word with care. “That’s interesting. We have a different name for him, though.”

“Him?” Isco asks, the significance of the word almost escaping him.

“Yeah,” James says with a small smile. “Cristiano.”

~~

“You don’t look like Cristiano.”

Isco feels James stir against his back, his lips tracing sleepy kisses on the skin of his neck.

He has thought long and hard about what few telling words James had offered during their brief exchange outside. Now, perhaps is not the best time to resume the conversation, but Isco feels too awake, too troubled by niggling questions to wait until morning.

“No, I don’t,” James affirms, tiredness evident in his voice. “Sorry if it’s not to your liking.”

Isco half-snorts. “That’s not what I meant. You know it’s not.” 

He turns around until they are face-to-face, their noses merely inches apart. James opens his eyes, and Isco can tell how solemn they are, how sad—always too expressive to hide what his words so prudently concealed.

“What’s wrong?” Isco asks, before adding almost instinctively, without thinking, “What did Cristiano say?”

James raises his brows in surprise. Home has always been a complex subject, and Isco has long ago adapted, granting James the time and comfort to speak at his own pace. Delicate answers can only be encouraged by delicate questions, and even then, an unrelenting haze of uncertainty always seem to remain. This time, however, James does not try to side step the question, and Isco realizes it almost immediately, how significant this is going to be.

“He said he’s sorry. He wants me to come home.”

“Oh,” is all Isco can say, and the syllable reverberates infinitely in his head. His breath feels labored, and his blood runs cold, but James is still talking so he wills himself to listen, to cherish the words that are finally flowing freely, even if they brought him pain.

“We fought—one of those stupid fights between brothers. Thinking back, it was mostly fault. I didn’t want to listen to him, even though I knew I should’ve.” 

James exhales a laugh, wistful and slightly embarrassed. 

“Sometimes, it gets lonely out there, being a star. We can’t actually get close to each other physically, or we might explode or cancel each other out. But our light—our light is how we communicate. We can transfer a little piece of our mind to every light particle, and that’s how we can see and talk and meet each other halfway across the vast distances that separate our actual bodies. That’s how we can go hunting and explore, make our homes in clouds of dust.”

“What—” Isco blinks slowly at James’ dark silhouette, too dazed to ask anything cleverer. “What do you hunt?” 

“Jackrabbits,” James says with a faint glimmer in his eyes. “Bison and deer—of course, not actual ones. Just tricks that light and dust can create if you’re good enough. We got the idea from you guys.”

“From us?” Isco echoes, surprised.

“The Earth really is special.” James touches the skin beneath Isco’s eyes, fingertips tracing the curve of his cheeks. “There’s no other planet like it—not that I know of, not that Cristiano knows of. And he knows so much more. When your sun isn’t blocking our light, we can see Earth. And the brighter we are, or the further our light can traveled, the more we can see.”

“Could you see me?” Isco remembers the nights spent with Antonio in the front yard, with paper spread out and taped together, so they could map constellations. He wonders which one James belonged to.

“No, not exactly,” James admits. “Our brightness is mostly determined at birth, but the distance our light has traveled depends on our age. At first, I could only see floating rocks revolving around an average star, but Cristiano helped me to focus. 

“Hey, watch it,” Isco half-jokes, or at least attempts to. “This average star is what made everything you see here possible.”

“I know, I know,” James laughs, “But it’s unfair—how average your sun is, to be given Earth for safe keeping.”

He hesitates then, just long enough for Isco to edge a little closer, entwining their fingers and softly urging him on.

“I could see oceans and mountains, glowing cities at night, but I couldn’t see people. At least, not then.” James’ sigh is heavy, laden with regret and unspoken apology. “I wanted to see so badly though, but Cristiano told me I had to wait. Some of us care more for Earth than others, and I guess Cris doesn’t find it all that interesting. Just billions of tiny, fragile people living and dying the way we blink our eyes.”

“He’s—got a point, you know,” Isco smiles mirthlessly.

“It was still something important to me," James continues, his voice chastised and small. "And he made fun of me for it without having to try. And I was angry at him, without him knowing. I didn’t want to listen to him. I didn’t want him to be right. So I leaned a little closer to your Sun, and I shined a little brighter. I lost my balance, and before I knew it, I was falling through space.”

James bows his head, and Isco has never seen him so dejected and vulnerable. He wants to tell him that he understands, that he had been a younger brother too, who knows how frustrating it can be to have wisdom forcibly imposed. There is a strange and undeniable satisfaction to learning things the hard way, through one’s own choices and mistakes. 

“Cris was by my side in a heartbeat—his mind, of course. He tried to talk me through it before I had fallen too far, but he wasn’t too nice about it. He said it would teach me a lesson, if I were to collide with your sun, a much smaller star. I would’ve engulfed it and came out unharmed, but your solar system would be gone.”

“Oh,” Isco says, because that is what one would say when the prospect of a planet’s demise is so haphazardly thrown into a dispute between brothers. James doesn’t think too much of it though, because Cristiano had evidently hurt him.

“‘Maybe you should listened to me next time’ was the take-home message. But Earth belonged to the universe, and Cristiano had no right to use it as a trump card over me, treating its destruction like a cruel punishment for a stubborn child to have something he loves taken away. I told Cris—or shouted at him, more precisely—that I would rather give up my light.”

“So you were willing to _die_ ,” Isco reiterates, “for billions of— _ants_.”

“For the only ants in the universe, wouldn’t you?” James smiles wistfully. “Ants that built civilizations and explored their world. Ants that created art, music, philosophy. Ants that loved.”

“And destroyed one another,” Isco adds, but James shakes his head, as if he knows _better_ from watching from his dust clouds so far away, that this planet is indeed redeemable. 

“I was angry and scared. I don’t think I understood the full weight of my words. There was still time to avoid the collision, but my light had started to fade. It happened so quickly, and I didn’t know why, or what to do to stop myself from disappearing. Cris calling my name was the last thing I heard before waking up here—seeing you.”

“How?” Isco asks, and James shrugs one shoulder, his expression enigmatic.

“Be careful what you wish for—I don’t know. Maybe the universe thought this would be a more fitting punishment. I was human, or as human as possible. I understood your language, pain, hunger, war, and death. I also felt a new sort of happiness, to be with someone— _actually_ , and not just in my mind.”

He runs a hand along Isco’s cheek, down his neck, and into the curve of his shoulder. It leaves an unnatural trail of warmth.

“I—” Isco struggles with a response, so awed by the answers to all the questions he had steadily deliberated over the past few months. “Why couldn’t you tell me any of this before?”

James frowns. “Because I was terrified, and ashamed to have fallen. And I also liked you and wanted you to like me.”

“You wanted me to like you,” Isco repeats.

“I thought maybe—if I tried to be as human as possible—”

“I found you in a crater,” Isco laughs out of disbelief, “And not to mention all the weird plant stuff you did in my front yard for the past few months. You were never going to convince me that you’re human.”

“I know,” James insists, with a touch of petulance in his voice. “I just needed some time to figure things out for myself, to learn how much of me is human now, and how much is still star.”

“It wouldn’t have changed a thing,” Isco says, “I just want you to know.” He pauses before asking the question he has been dreading throughout the better part of this conversation. “Why are you telling me this now?”

James hesitates to respond.

“Are you going to leave?” 

“Eventually, I have to go home.”

And there it is. And it feels about right, just as Isco had imagined when these telling words finally spill into the gaping void. He feels a little colder, a little more lost, but he braves the tightness in his chest and the hollow ache in his heart. “It’s fine,” he says, “If you do. I understand.”

Isco rubs at his eyes. They aren't wet. He isn’t actually crying, but James holds him closer still, wrapping his arms around Isco and tucking his head beneath his chin.

“But not until—” James begins, and Isco can feel the vibrations from his vocal chords, the tentative little tremors in his throat. “Not until every tree on this planet is green, every bird can sing their morning songs, and every star can shine in the night sky.”

Isco’s lips curve sadly against James' collarbone. He thinks of explosions and bullets falling like rain. He thinks of cities frozen in the aftermath of war, sprawling like the burnt carcasses of great beasts—black, lifeless, abandoned. “I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “I’m not so sure if that’s possible.”

James pauses briefly to gather his thoughts. “Or how about,” he starts again, “Until you don’t want me to stay anymore.”

The sound Isco makes is a cross between a laugh and a sob. “I’m not sure if that’s possible either,” he says, “But—you’re welcomed to stay. More than welcomed.”

~~

Isco remembers his father’s hands, coated in sawdust from the hours of woodwork, the skin of his palms thick and rough. The basement was his workshop, where he kept a fine assortment of mahogany and oak. His tools were simple, a humble selection of chisels, carving knives, and gouges, but that never kept him from creating the most intricate of works.

Isco runs the rasp over the surface, smoothing the wood until it is pleasant to the most tender of touches. He remembers the songbirds that used to visit in the mornings—finches, swallows, purple martins. Some nest in clusters so multiple levels would do them good. Others prefer houses that are well covered, suspended high above the ground. Isco will need to buy birdseeds the next time he visits the village. 

He whistles the tunes that were once his father’s, seamless and whimsical like the notes of a flute. His lips and tongue feels clumsy like an old instrument, but the sweetness is there, the music is there.

This is for James—Isco thinks as he levels the rough edges with sandpaper, blowing sawdust off the tiny wooden home—James, who salvaged a seedling in the wake of winter and brought life to a garden frozen in ash. And once the flowers blossom and the trees turn green, spring would surely have returned. And Isco would lie beneath the sky and whistle his tunes and show James every goddamn bird this forest has to offer.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, quick update because I have some time on my hands. The next one will unfortunately take a while due to my internship starting. One more (long-ish?) chapter until the story is complete!

One gray morning in late March, Isco treks to the village in search for more supplies. He takes Messi with him, now that the snow and ice have melted from the roads, and the trees in their paths are budding green with the promise of spring. 

“Come on, Messi. Leave it,” Isco coaxes his dog along, not wanting to waste the precious hours of the day on traveling.

Messi whines and tugs at his leash, wanting to explore the rodents’ nests beneath blossoming huckleberry bushes and feeling woefully aggrieved when Isco deprives him of the chance to. 

“Don’t give me that look, buddy,” Isco grins at his companion. “The sooner we get to the village, the sooner we can go home. And the sooner you can bully James for all the human food you want. How does that sound?”

Isco doesn’t notice the crowd of townspeople gathering in the streets until they reach the village square. He soon spots an army truck parked in front of Casillas’ store, with soldiers in black, military garbs standing by.

“The hell,” Isco mutters as he approaches, tightening his hold on Messi’s leash. He joins the group on onlookers, pausing beside Pedro, the baker’s son.

“What’s going on?” Isco asks, just as a tall, broad-shouldered man in uniform exits the small shop, his expression dour beneath his hardhat. He has a black assault carbine slung across his left shoulder. Isco instinctively tugs at the strap of his own rifle.

“Soldiers,” Pedro whispers, “English. They set up base in Cártama—for the long haul.”

“What’re they doing here?” Isco wonders, watching Casillas emerge from the storefront, holding a wooden crate. There are bags of grains on the ground, next to jarred preserves and canned goods.

“I’m sorry, but this is all we have at the moment.” Isco hears Casillas say. 

The military man—a corporal judging by his rank insignia—takes the box and scowls at its contents. He digs into his jacket before tossing a few coins and bills at the shopkeeper. Casillas does not retrieve the money (hardly enough to compensate for what they had took) from the ground until the corporal has turned on his heels.

The shopkeeper’s wife—Sara—stands a few feet away, softly shushing the crying infant in her arms.

“Can you tell that thing to shut up?” a soldier snarls in English-accented Spanish, lugging a bag of grain into the truck.

“You can’t blame a baby for crying,” Sara mutters, just loud enough for the passing corporal to hear.

He halts in his stride, before approaching menacingly towards the young mother. “Say that again— _pinche puta_ ,” he mocks.

“Hey, come on—” Casillas is quick to insert himself between his wife and the military man. “You got what you came here for already, just—”

The corporal tightens a gloved hand around the shopkeeper’s throat, throwing him onto the ground. Sara cries out in horror as a heavy boot collides with her husband’s midriff, sending him crumpling in a heap. 

“Please!” Sara begs, her eyes brimming with tears. She falls back, shielding her crying child from the corporal’s reach. “Please, stop—Please!”

To have such a violent, cruel man in a position of power is a mockery to the people struggling to survive. Isco wishes he were more surprised, but there are men like this in every country, on every side of the war. He feels his gut twist and blood broil, but he can’t bring himself to look away. No one attempts to interfere as Casillas coughs into the ground, all afraid to fall victim to the corporal’s senseless rage. But it can’t go on like this—Isco thinks—it can’t last forever. Something has to be done, but—what?

“Hey, _motherfucker_!” Isco hears shouting in the distance. He doesn’t need to turn to realize to whom the voice belonged. 

Sergio rams past the crowd of villagers, tackling the corporal to the ground. A brief scuffle ensues, but the other two soldiers react quickly, dragging the reckless Spaniard away from their leader before any actual damage can be dealt. 

“Fucking—” The corporal spits into the dirt, his face twisted in anger. “Man with a fucking death wish, huh?”

He rises to his feet, ordering his soldiers to hold Sergio still. The corporal swings at Sergio’s face, a devastating blow at shook his entire body. Sergio doesn’t fall when the soldiers release his arms, but he appears disorientated, swaying in his stride. A punch to the stomach sends him toppling over, before the heels of heavy boots slam into his back.

The corporal cusses in both English and Spanish, calling Sergio a bastard, _un pendejo_ , a fool. Sergio takes the beating with silent defiance, refusing to back down or to crumble completely to the dust matted ground. His nose is bloodied, and his left eye is swelling shut. There undoubtedly will be cracked ribs beneath his faded, denim jacket.

 _Idiot_ , Isco thinks, his hands balled to useless fists by his sides. He wishes Sergio would swallow his pride, wipe that arrogant smirk off his face, stay down, something— _anything_ that wouldn’t serve to only fuel his assailant's anger.

The beating lasts two minutes at most, but it feels like an eternity before the corporal finally relents. He takes a fistful of ruffled brown hair and yanks, pulling the battered Spaniard to his knees. “Hope you learned a lesson about minding your own business, you piece of shit,” he says through labored breath. “How about I hear an apology?”

Sergio keeps quiet, glaring hazily through smears of red across his face and eyes.

“Come on, don’t be shy,” the corporal grins toothily, thinking he has already won. “Loud enough for everyone to hear.”

Sergio, instead, spits on his face.

 _Idiot, idiot, idiot!_ Isco shouts in his head, remembering only too vividly the way Sergio tackled during football matches, taking no prisoners in the wake of his reckless abandon. Sara is kneeling beside her husband, sobbing as she hugs their baby boy. Fernando, Álvaro, and Silva are all among the crowd, too terrified to move.

The corporal reaches into his coat, and— _NO!_

A rock, the size of a small child’s fist, collides with the corporal’s hardhat. Isco doesn’t realize that he had thrown it, until the corporal turns to him with a malicious twist at his lips and grim death in his eyes. “What do we have here? Another fool who wants to play hero?”

Isco is a few steps ahead of the other onlookers, with only Messi by his side. His Labrador growls and barks and tugs at his leash, but Isco is too terrified to move, his gaze fixed to the handgun in the corporal’s gloved hand. He doesn’t dare to draw his own weapon.

Would the corporal kill him in front of all these people? No one could stop him if he chooses to. There is no limit to the horrors that men can impose when their egos are scorned. Isco exhales a stuttering breath, praying for a beating instead of death. _James, James_ —James is still home. James is still waiting for him.

Another small rock strikes the corporal’s shoulder, halting him once more. Nagore, standing defiantly beside her oldest son, had thrown it.

The corporal snarls as he turns to the widow, but a thin veil of panic soon shrouds the rage contorting his features. The crowd of onlookers appears to grow, watching the military man with simmering rebellion—some mumbling among themselves, others shouting. They slowly encircle the corporal, his men, and his truck.

“Stay back!” the corporal roars, turning his head from side to side. “You think this is a fucking joke?”

He waves his gun in the air and hurls his curses, but his body language is that of a retreating animal. The villagers are not fooled. They had lost so much over the years; their dignity is all they had left. Any sudden movement, a gun shot, can launch a full-on riot. 

The corporal manages to briefly deter the crowd with his raised weapon, and two sparse seconds are all he needed to climb into the passenger seat of the truck. The vehicle rumbles into life, disappearing down the dust-covered roads moments after. They had gotten the supplies they came here for, and perhaps, massacring a small village seemed too needless of a hassle.

“Oh, Iker!” Sara cries out of relief, as Casillas stirs beneath her touch, pushing himself to sit. Isco sees Fernando and the others rushing towards where Sergio had fallen, helping their friend to his feet.

“Come on.” Isco tugs at Messi’s leash, speeding through the dispersing crowd. “We have to leave. We have to go home.”

~~

Sergio looked upset one afternoon when Antonio and Isco packed up their football gear early.

“Come on,” he protested, kicking Antonio’s ball against the metal wires circling the pitch. “We have another hour at least, before it’s dark.”

“Sorry, have to go help Ma set up the table and all,” Antonio mumbled, rolling down his socks. "We'll catch you later."

Sergio was the toughest kid in town, and he had to be, with his drunk father and his absentee mother and his poverty-stricken home. Most of the kids were afraid of him, and some adults too. At 16, he was tall and lean—muscled like a feral animal and unpredictable like one too. Not many people dared to deny Sergio the way Antonio had at the moment.

“Oh, for what?” Sergio cried out impatiently. He picked up the ball and jogged towards them, dropping it inside Antonio’s open duffle. “What could be so important?”

“Um, Christmas Eve?” Antonio stared at him, and Sergio looked genuinely caught out.

“Oh.” He scratched his unruly hair, embarrassed. “I guess I lost track of the date and all.”

Isco wondered if Sergio’s family ever celebrated Christmas. He wasn’t about to ask, but the question must have been on Antonio’s mind too.

“So, you got any plans for tonight?”

“No, not really.” Sergio shrugged. “Haven’t seen Pop since last week.”

“Come to our house for dinner, then,” Antonio said with a casual air of indifference. He didn’t want it to sound like a charity, knowing that Sergio was too proud to take charities, even from his friends.

“I don’t know.” Sergio sounded skeptical. It wouldn’t be the first time he came to their house for dinner and stayed the night. The only difference was that he didn't sustain any superficial injuries, the kind in need of a mother’s careful eye and tender touch.

Antonio shook his head, punching his friend lightly on the shoulder. “We have plenty of food. It would be no trouble at all.”

Sergio had stuck around them for two years now, or more precisely, around Antonio. He hero-worshipped Antonio, which made no sense, considering Antonio wasn’t reckless, didn’t like fighting, and was perfectly capable of making sound judgments like any normal human being. Isco felt a twinge of jealously, sitting across the dinner table from his brother rather than next to him as he did all the previous Christmas Eves. He watched Sergio warily, perched straight and unnaturally still in Antonio’s clothes, brown hair damp and swept from a recent shower.

Sergio behaved like an angel that evening—cautious, quiet, polite—avoiding sudden movements and answering only when spoken to. Isco could tell that Sergio wanted to live up to their expectations, to be the proper son and brother, worthy to sit at the dinner table with a family who had shown him such frightening generosity. It was a façade but with pure intention. Sergio would return to being Sergio—just not that night, in the warmth of the Alarcon home.

It was New Year’s Day when his dad’s body was found just a few miles outside of town, frozen among the metal debris of a wayward missile. The air was frigid cold, smelling of frost and incoming snow. Isco followed Antonio, and they spent the entire day looking for Sergio, until the sky returned to a deep purple-blue and the first specks of snow descended on the cracked, dusty ground. 

“It’s getting dark,” Isco complained beneath his down jacket and scratchy scarf, “I’m cold, Antonio.”

“Alright,” his brother said, giving the empty roads one last helpless look. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

Sergio disappeared on the first day of the year, and it wouldn't be until spring when Isco and Antonio see him again, cycling the roads among other misfits, with spikes sewn onto his denim and ink etched in his skin.

~~

“Jesus—” Isco wakes up, panting and punching at his sheets. James is next to him, holding his wrists and kissing his face, telling him it’s okay. It’s just a nightmare. It’s okay.

“Fuck.” Isco blinks into the darkness, willing away the flashing images of Sergio, Antonio, mom and dad, James, everyone he knew being gunned down, while he watched helplessly like a ghost in the room, only eyes and ears but no body. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he repeats, reaching for James’ head and pulling him down. He wraps his arms around the other boy, breathing into his hair, savoring his warmth.

James keeps still, his heartbeat languid compared to the frantic beating inside Isco’s chest. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Isco pants against his neck, threading his fingers through short, thick hair. He closes his eyes and holds James a little tighter, before deciding finally, “Go get dressed.”

~~

Isco fills his bag with two loaves of bread, vegetables from the garden, and apples from the small tree that barely reaches his chin. He packs bandages and gauze, rubbing alcohol, and a thermos of clean water hot from the stove. It’s not much, but it will have to do. He just hopes the peace offering is enough to appease the lot of them, so that he can at least talk to Sergio.

It wasn’t difficult to find their camp. Once they reached the river, the scent of smoke in the gentle, night breeze guided their way. Isco spots the steady glow of a campfire in a clearing by the river, and only then does he feel the cold bite of fear sinking into his heart. James behind him takes his hand and clasps it tight, providing a much-needed reassurance. 

There is no music, dancing, or drinking tonight. Isco sees Álvaro drifting off by the fire, his head propped up by his fist. Fernando next to him appears more awake, sullenly stirring the fire with a long branch. 

The brambles shuffle as Isco pushes past. “Who’s there?” The blonde boy shouts, turning swiftly. Álvaro beside him jerks awake.

“Calm down,” Isco says, stepping into the clearance. He’s glad it’s only the two of them guarding camp. They were there in the village earlier that day, and they know what had happened. Isco doesn’t need to explain himself, too much. 

“What’re you doing here?” Fernando narrows his eyes, pushing himself up. He has a knife stashed somewhere in his jacket, Isco is sure, but Isco’s rifle still gives him the upper hand if a skirmish were to ensue.

“To help.” Isco tosses his bag halfway between where he and Fernando stood. A golden apple rolls onto the dirt matted ground, stopping once it reaches Fernando’s boot. The blonde boy frowns at it, and Isco wonders contemptuously if Fernando was there the day they hacked down the apple tree and drained the life from a garden that once flourished under his mother’s care.

“Why?” the blonde boy asks, his skepticism undeterred.

“Because this is what happens.” Isco’s voice is a tight, angry whisper. “This is what happens when Sergio gets his ass handed to him, and—well, _fuck_ —Antonio isn’t here anymore.”

Fernando stares at him, brows pinched.

“Or maybe you don’t even know who Antonio is,” Isco laughs scornfully, “He was dead by the time you showed up. Why bother with the dead, right? People only matter when they’re alive.”

“I know who Antonio is,” Fernando finally speaks.

“I don’t think you do.” Isco shakes with anger, because if they knew him, they wouldn’t have treated his home—his _family’s_ home—as if he never existed to show such underserving kindness to— _Sergio_. Sergio knew Antonio, and he still chose to—

Isco blinks away, willing himself from descending into that dark spiral. The hatred will consume him, and now is hardly the time to give in.

“Where is Sergio, damn it!” He wishes he hadn’t shouted. “Let me talk to him!”

Fernando remains silent, his lips pressed to a thin line.

“You were there today. You saw what happened and what I did. There’s no reason for you not to believe me.”

The blonde boy continues to stare, eyeing Isco from head to toe in quiet disapproval. He swallows before he talks, evidently forgoing a significant degree of pride. “If you’re actually here to help, then put your rifle down.”

“Ha!” Isco’s laugh echoes in the night. “You’re funny. Fuck you.”

Fernando’s freckled face contorts in rage. “You little _shit_ —” he begins, before a hoarse chuckle halts him in his outburst. 

Sergio stands by an open tent, his head haphazardly bandaged and the corners of his lips crusted with blood. He crosses his arms over his bare torso, his tattoos stark against his skin that glows bronze in the firelight. Fernando’s expression faintly softens at the sight of him. 

“Leave him alone, Nando,” Sergio smiles, his words slurring at the edges. He could be drunk, high, tired, or any combination of the three, Isco can never tell. “He came a damn long way just to talk, and I’m always up for talking.”

Fernando looks away briefly, returning his glare to Isco. “You heard him,” he articulates each syllable with careful disdain, “Go.”

Isco hesitates, glancing cautiously to James a few steps behind and then to Fernando and Álvaro by the fire.

“Oh, what are we going to do?” Fernando throws his hands up, annoyed. 

James smiles, reaching for Isco’s arm and giving him an encouraging nudge. “Go. I’ll be fine, waiting here.”

~~

“Ah,” Sergio hisses, as Isco wraps gauze around his bloodied palm, the knot he made a touch too tight. Sergio’s grin remains intact however, his usual sharp features softened in the candlelight.

The skin around his left eye has turned a deep purple-black, and the cut at his lip swollen red, threatening to split every time he smiles. There are bruises covering his lean, trim torso, scrapes on his hands and knees caked with dry blood. The bandages around his head are soiled already, blood and yellow plasma seeping through.

“Sofia was better at this, rest her soul,” Sergio says artlessly, as if it were some casual icebreaker. It sends Isco reeling with rage.

“Don’t you fucking talk about my mother,” he grits through clenched teeth. “She was kind to you, and you—you took away, destroyed everything she had worked for in her life—you, _asshole_.” 

“They were dead—” Sergio begins, but Isco interrupts him, shouting.

“You didn’t know that! How could you possibly have known?”

“Because I looked.” Sergio’s voice is hard. “In the aftermath of the bombing. Did you?”

Isco feels grief burning in his chest and throat. “No,” he pauses, before asking, “Did you see them?”

“I didn’t see anything.”

“Then, how’d you know?”

“Because I waited too. For them to come home.”

Isco’s eyes brim with bitter tears, and he has to look away, refusing to let them fall.

“I missed you, though,” Sergio continues, “I don’t know how I could’ve—but you were so quiet in there, didn’t budge for weeks, and I—I’m sorry for what I did, even though I never told you.”

“You sure as hell didn’t look sorry at the time,” Isco laughs depreciatingly, too emotionally drained for his anger to flare once more. 

“I had other friends, who were alive and struggling to stay alive. Would the dead really have minded?”

Isco supposes Sergio has a point, but Sergio had also made one woeful miscalculation. Isco wasn’t dead, and he certainly had minded. And he is not one to hand out forgiveness so generously.

“You could’ve come with us.” Sergio’s smile lacks his usual edge. “I would’ve taken care of you.”

“Fuck, if I believe that,” Isco scoffs, because Sergio does such a splendid job taking care of himself, in the wreck that is their miserable lives now. Isco doesn't need him. He doesn't need anyone to live out the rest of his lonely years.

But Sergio misunderstands him, insisting, “Of course, I would’ve. You’re Antonio’s kid brother.”

“Antonio’s dead.”

“You’re still his brother.”

Loyalty is perhaps Sergio’s most redeeming quality, and above all else, he was loyal to Antonio. It was only by association that Isco had escaped Sergio’s infamous wrath, and he never quite grew out of this initial trepidation, even though he knew that Sergio would never hurt him. But in Antonio’s absence, it appears that Sergio has sworn to other loyalties.

“You could’ve died today,” Isco finally says, “You idiot.”

He remembers the thin, brown-haired boy that Antonio coaxed into joining their pickup matches after school—a boy with an easy laugh and a magnetic smile that can shift into the most terrifying spells of rage within seconds. He remembers a boy with an indestructible ego, who fought without the fear of scraped knees, broken noses, or the patronizing disappointment of adults. So can Isco really be surprised to see the man sitting before him now, with ink adorning the lengths of his arms and the same untamed smile underneath a beard, with bruises all over his body that will never quite heal?

Isco thinks of Casillas in his little shop, with his wife and their baby son. Are they the heritors of Sergio’s unyielding loyalty, the latest to show him kindness without pity, the only kindness he could accept? 

“You could’ve too.” Isco barely registers that Sergio is talking. “Could’ve died today,” he elaborates, and Isco finally understands.

“I know—” he stutters, his voice muted. “Fuck, I don’t know—Do you think that’s the end of it? They wouldn’t come back, would they?”

“I don’t know,” Sergio says, reaching for Isco’s face and threading his fingers into the hair behind his ear. Isco fights the initial instinct to flinch away, the touch unnaturally tender against his bare neck. “But if they do, don’t stop me again. Please.”

~~

By the time they return home, dawn has dissolved the dark sky to a mirthless pale-blue. James yawns as he steps inside, shrugging off his jacket and kicking off his shoes.

“I haven’t stayed up all night like that since—well, you know.” James flashes an easy smile, but Isco doesn't return one. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

Isco ignores the question, crowding James against the door as he wraps his arms around James’ waist. “Come to bed with me.” 

James nods, letting Isco push his shirt up and undo his pants. Isco kisses James the entire time, guiding them until they are tangled between the blankets with only the fabric of their underwear separating their hardening lengths.

Isco rolls them until he’s on top, licking along James’ neck while running possessive hands over the flat of his chest. He grinds down on James, catching the boy’s moan against his mouth as James grips onto Isco’s hip, his free hand fumbling between them, pulling their boxers down and closing his hand around both of their erections. 

Isco is terrified, his heartbeat rabbit quick inside his too-tight chest, and sex does not make him feel better in any way. He thrusts into James' hand, his motions too forceful and rhythm too wild, while his breaths are frustrated little whimpers despite his best efforts to stay quiet. James watches, worried but compliant beneath him, before finally asking Isco to slow down.

James releases their cocks so he can hold Isco close and still. “What’s wrong?” he asks again.

Isco buries his face into James’ shoulder, his sob dry and broken. “Is it possible—” he swallows, needing a moment to curb his emotions and gather his courage. “Can you leave?”

“What?”

“If you wanted to go home at this exact moment,” Isco says, “Can you? Do you know how?”

James searches him long and hard, before responding carefully, “Yes.”

Isco shifts until they are lying side-by-side, his eyes locked to James’. “I want you to promise me—if I disappear one day, or if people come to this house with guns pointing—that you would leave. That very moment, you would go home.”

James frowns at him, his lips parted with inevitable protest. “I’m not going to abandon you.”

“You said you would leave if I wanted you to,” Isco insists, “And there might be a day that—I will want you to, not because I’ve stopped caring, but—”

“No, stop it.” James’ dark eyes are wide with worry. “I’m not going to leave you, especially not when you’ll need me the most.”

“Fuck—I know better, James,” Isco snaps, his voice cracking and unreasonably loud. “I know better than you about this planet, and all the assholes on the planet, and all the possible ways I can die. Just promise me, please. Because I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to you. It’s—worse than death.”

Isco’s breath strains with each exhale, and his heart aches so badly, the way the natural glimmer fades in James’ eyes, and his childlike petulance gradually surrenders to solemn resignation. Isco has thought long and hard about this, since the moment he returned from the village with ice in his veins and his heart in his throat. He made a mess for himself—and maybe it’s nothing, maybe there’s still hope for a pleasant future together—but Isco will not risk James’ safety for the sake of his own selfish happiness. James belongs to the universe, and humanity has no right to remove a star from the sky.

“Okay,” James eventually says, “Okay, but—you have to promise me one thing too.”

“What is it?”

“Promise me that, if I tell you to close your eyes, you will. And you won’t open them until I call your name.”

Isco doesn’t understand, and he doubts James expects him to, the way he watches him, his eyes searching and pleading as if looks can convey infinitely more than words at this moment.

“Promise me. Do you trust me?” James asks.

Isco sighs against his pillow, sinking into bone-deep tiredness. “Of course, I do. I—I promise, too.”


	7. Chapter 7

Isco’s arms are tied behind his back, bent in an awkward, painful angle. He is slumped over on his side, the floor beneath his cheek feels like smooth, cold metal. A single light suspends from the ceiling of this small, windowless cubicle, swaying and casting menacing shadows in the corners of his eyes. He can’t shake the numbness from his limbs even as voices fill the room, indiscernible underwater echoes that feel both far away and trapped inside his head.

It hurts to swallow, to breathe, to _think_. Isco can feel his screams tearing out of his throat, but no sound ever enters his ears.

~~

In his dream, James stands before him in the black emptiness of space, his body composed of silver dust and strings of light. James smiles but doesn’t speak, moving through the void as if he were swimming, leaving behind gleaming ripples in his path.

Isco follows the only way he knows how. He runs even though there is nothing beneath his feet to push his momentum forward, but the stars in heaven seem to abide. The universe moves before his eyes.

James takes him to a forest among the clouds, the trees tall and thick and luminescent with pinks and greens, blues and gold. A silvery rabbit darts from a nearby shrub, scratching its ear with its hind leg. It hops along the clearing, leaving the same ripples of golden light, until a fox springs from its nest behind the trees, catching the rabbit in its teeth. Upon contact, the rabbit bursts into light, leaving nothing but glittering dust on the ground.

Isco watches in awe and feels—rather than hears—James calling for him. James holds out his hand, and Isco reaches for him, until their palms are perfectly aligned, so close but not touching. They can’t touch.

Isco turns to James, and the strange boy smiles despite the sadness clouding his eyes.

~~

“Come on, Isco, get down here!” Antonio shouts from beneath the apple tree. “Ma says lunch is ready. You’ll get us both in trouble!”

“Gimme a sec, come on!” Isco laughs, hoisting himself onto the thick, leafy branch. He plucks an apple from the twig, before tossing it to where Antonio is standing. “Catch!” 

Antonio fumbles with his catch, frowning up at his brother. “Alright, we both got seven. Get back down here, already.”

But another apple appears, just a hair out of reach on the branch above. It beckons to Isco almost tantalizingly, and maybe—he thinks—if he stands on his tiptoes, he can reach.

“Don’t!” Antonio shouts, “Leave it, Isco! You’ll fall! Isco!”

The wood splits with a crack so loud that it reverberates through his bones, and Isco feels his feet give beneath him, falling backwards towards the unforgiving ground. He reaches desperately for something— _anything_ —to break his fall but catches only leaves and twigs that crumble in his grasp. 

Isco falls, and he keeps on falling. Antonio shouts for him like a broken record.

~~

When Isco wakes up again, he is lying on dry, hot concrete. Smoke burns his eyes and fills his lungs, while embers singe the tips of his hair and his growing beard. Isco coughs, blinking blearily at the cityscape before him. The buildings are charred black, some already crumbled, while pillars of smoke stood in their place, reaching high towards the blood-red sky.

“Mom!” Isco shouts, pushing himself up, his fingers burning from the hot gravel. “Dad! Antonio!”

He tries to recall where he had last seen them—in the bookstore maybe, or one of the shops with imported spices from Asia. Isco had wandered away into the marketplace, his attention caught by the shy smile of a dark-haired girl in a white summer dress. That was when the first bombs hit, one exploding by the building just across the street, hurling bricks and fire at the panicked crowd. A stampede ensued as people struggled to escape, and Isco had no choice but to follow the current, knowing his family was elsewhere in the chaotic shambles of the city.

But this time—this time, it is different. It’s quiet and still, like the aftermath of the bombing that no one had been crazy enough to stick around for. Isco stumbles through the empty streets, calling for his family and hearing only the howling of fire and wind in return. He must’ve run a mile before finally spotting something resembling a body, battered and broken among the rubble and debris—the body of a young man, _James_.

“No,” Isco breathes, “No, no, no, no—”

He rushes to the boy and drops to his knees, running a shaky hand along the side of James' face and smearing the blood gathered at his lips and chin. James’ eyes are closed, his angelic face bruised but at peace, but there is no breath, no heartbeat, no pulse—the color of his cheeks are already fading.

“James,” Isco pleads, face contorted and tears stinging his eyes, “Please—please, no—”

He wonders if death had been swift, if James had suffered or felt any pain as he sank into cold, dark loneliness. He wonders if James had been scared, calling for his brothers and sisters, for Isco, wishing for someone by his side as he waited for the last beat of his heart. Could Cristiano shine through the smoke-filled remains of the city? Was he able to watch his brother die?

Isco doesn’t go to church anymore, has never found a reason to pray ever since the air raid that had taken his family. But if there is any justice left in the world, there would be a heaven for both people and stars, so that James is somewhere out there, free from this indefensible evil and knowing that one day he will be reunited with his family, and maybe even Isco too. Isco doesn’t believe in God anymore, but in this moment, he wishes nothing more than for God to exist. 

He wills away the grief that paralyzes him, the anguish crushing his chest, so that he can finally utter these few words that he had long abandoned but far from being forgotten—the only distraction from this unbearable pain.

“ _Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil…Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name—_ ”

He repeats the prayer like a mantra, as if his life— _more than his life_ —depended on it, until James’ body has grown pale and cold beneath him, and Isco’s words become indistinguishable from his sobs.

__

~~

“Francisco Alarcón, son of Antonio Alarcón, Sr. and Sophia Suárez. Brother of Antonio, Jr…But you go by Isco, is that right?”

These are the words that Isco wakes to, along with the pungent aroma of ham and boiled eggs, toast and butter, in an assorted platter before him. A man—graying and in his fifties—sips at his coffee from across the table. 

“Enjoy your breakfast, please,” the man gestures to the food, “You must be hungry.”

His captor—a highly ranked military man suggested by his uniform—spoke excellent Spanish, but there is a decided foreignness in his tone, his syllables earthier, less fluid. 

“I am terribly sorry for the loss of your family,” he resumes, “The destruction of Málaga was devastating for all of us.”

“How—” Isco manages to croak out, his mind fuzzy and slow. “How did you know about my family?”

“You told us,” the man responds easily, “And please don’t feel alarmed if you don’t remember. You were under the influence of a very potent drug. Eat, eat.” He makes scooping motions with his hand. “The better you feel, the more enjoyable this conversation will be, for both of us. I guarantee you.”

Isco doesn’t know how much time has passed, or how long since he had last eaten, but the steady ache in his head demolishes his appetite, replacing it with swirls of nausea in his gut. He looks blearily at the man before him, tries his best to appear hateful.

“I must admit that am not a patient man,” his captor continues, “So I do not plan on wasting either of our time. I’m sure we can reach an agreement. After all, Spain and England are allies now. As well as Portugal, my homeland.”

Allies now, Isco frowns dourly. They certainly had not been allies since the beginning of the war, and Isco has long lost interest in these fickle alliances made by politicians so detached from the suffering of the people. Allies mean nothing.

“And I am aware of the altercation months ago, between your village and a few soldiers under my command. I apologize for their reckless behavior. Recklessness, it is not a unique feature, I’m afraid. There are reckless men in every country, on every side of the war.”

“I thought you weren’t going to waste my time,” Isco says boldly, perhaps too boldly. He hears a pistol cock from behind him, the muzzle prodding the back of his head for his insolence.

The man waves it away, appearing more amused than insulted. “I suppose you must be curious why soldiers are here in the first place, in this quaint little village untouched by war.”

“Nothing is untouched by war,” Isco retorts petulantly, while his captor smiles.

“I’m encouraged that you feel this way because we all wish for the war to end. Do you ever wonder why a young, able-bodied man like yourself is not in the army? If it were 50 years ago—let’s say—surely, you would have be enlisted.”

Isco stays silent, knowing it is not a question meant for him to answer. This man—whomever he might be—obviously enjoys listening to himself talk.

“Bombs that can wipe out cities in a blink of an eye, fire that cannot not be extinguished with water, chemicals that drive men insane, so they murder their neighbors. This is no longer a war fought by man. We do not need more soldiers. We need technology, weapons, protection.”

He opens a large envelope, previously ignored at the corner of the table, before revealing a set of photographs showing a bird’s-eye image of land and ocean.

“This is a photo taken by one of our drones, peculiar isn’t it?”

The majority of the land—Southern Spain—appears barren and brown, except for a small region where the trees have flourished, thick and green and sprawling.

“A year ago, we detected something entering the earth’s atmosphere, most likely a meteor,” the military man explains, “And by the time it emerged form the stratosphere, most of the mass had disintegrated, leading to what we had predicted to be a very small impact, if any. We didn’t think much of it then, until we received information from a drone that we were certain got shot down. We lost all traces of it the moment it entered your airspace, but once it emerged, everything appeared perfectly normal. Something—a strong magnetic field, an energy force, perhaps—is disrupting our signals, and also—” he gestures vaguely with his hand “—making your plants grow. I am interested to know what it is.”

Isco feels the cold bite of fear entering his heart. He tries to recall what he might have revealed under the influence of the drug and remembers nothing but nightmares and old memories mingling almost seamlessly. 

“Why would I know anything?” He tries to play dumb and wishes he had sounded more convincing, even to his own ears.

“Just a hunch,” his captor shrugs, “Considering you were the first to reap the benefits.”

 _Fernando_ —Isco remembers finally—his last real memory before waking up in this hell. Fernando had spotted him on his way to the village and insisted that Isco followed him. Sergio was looking for him, he had said, with information regarding Antonio. 

Isco also remembers confronting Fernando by the river those months before, where he had tossed over his bag of supplies, the golden apples thudding against the ground.

“But please don’t blame Fernando,” the military man speaks of the traitorous blonde like an apologetic parent, “He was only looking out for his friend—the stubborn one, that is. Or perhaps, he simply does not value his own life over the life of a friend. Now the question is, do you care for him as deeply as he cares for you?”

“What did you do with him?” Isco swallows the fear in this throat, unsure of what he should think, let alone say. “Where’s Sergio?”

“I have ways to extract information,” the man continues, ignoring Isco’s demands, “But I am not fond of those means. Sure, eventually, everyone talks, but causing others pain does not bring me pleasure. I rather achieve my means by appealing to reason. But of course, know that your village is under my control—your friend Sergio, the storekeeper Casillas, James.”

 _James_. 

His captor articulates the last syllables with an almost feigned sweetness, clearly meant to elicit a response. Isco feels his blood churn cold, as he hangs on to what little clarity is left in his mind, refusing to succumb to his panic and make mistakes out of fear. 

They can’t have James. They would know much more about the magic that had brought life to the forests had they managed to get a hold of James. Is it because they haven’t found Isco’s house, tucked away so securely in the mazy woods? The only other person who knows the precise location is Sergio, and Sergio did not betray him. 

Perhaps, his face is too honest, because the man appears to have read Isco’s mind, a sinister veil falling over his features as he elaborates, “James is a refugee from the city, who is residing with you. That is the general consensus. I will admit that our progress has been hindered by whatever _power_ this meteor possesses, that scrambles our signals and renders any navigation tool useless. But I have sent soldiers to map out these woods—the traditional way, if you will. We have found the site of impact, and it will only be a matter of time before we find your home. You can either lead us to what we are looking for, or we can take James, up to you. But I cannot guarantee that my generosity will be extended much longer. My time is precious to me, and forgiveness has never been my virtue.”

If there is anything honest about this man, it is his arrogance—so profound that nothing can veer him away from what he believes is irredeemably true. Unfortunately, he is not incorrect, and Isco curses in his mind, feeling frustrated, helpless, and infinitely small. 

“What do you plan on doing?” he eventually asks, knowing that he has lost, “After you find this— _meteor_.”

“Study it,” the man responds simply, the corners of his lips quirking in approval, “Understand its properties and potential. Use it in our mission to end the war.”

“By destroying their cities,” Isco challenges with bitterness in his heart, “And killing innocent people caught in the wrong place and time, the wrong side of the battlefield.” 

“They would do the same to us. They already did, to you and your family.”

“And that makes it alright?” 

“Let’s not pretend that this is about good versus evil,” the man sneers, cold and undeterred, “It’s us against them, the lives of our people or the lives of theirs. We all have blood on our hands. I simply strive to be on the winning side.”

~~

Perhaps the most terrifying of men are those who can instill fear without violence. Isco agrees to lead them to the meteor, on account that they treat the villagers as kindly as possible during this brief, unwelcomed stay. The trueness of their promise, Isco has every reason to doubt, but he lacks any sort of leverage in his current predicament, leaving him only to hope for the best.

Ten soldiers accompany Isco through the woods—mostly English, a few Spanish and Portuguese. They cuff his hands and threaten him with their weapons, knowing that they cannot kill him, but nonetheless would find great satisfaction in causing him pain, if he were to attempt an escape. 

Isco takes the longest route, the one with the most rocks to climb and rivers to cross, thorns and nettles that can catch onto your clothes and scrape your skin. _These people_ —he thinks bitterly—these arrogant, selfish, amoral people have no idea the power they so treacherously aim to exploit. But then again, not even Isco realizes James’ full potential, the magic of a star trapped within the body of a boy.

But what Isco knows for certain is that the war will not end, because violence can never bring peace no matter how destructive the weapons or how devastating the loss. There is not a country left worth living in, let alone dying for, and Isco refuses to trade his life for the ignorance of politicians, the failure of governments, or the cruelty of the powerful, but he will for the people he loves.

James is sitting by the dining table when Isco walks through the door. He straightens in his seat with a smile on his face, and Isco has to watch with anguish as the smile of relief fades to shock, uncertainty, worry, and distress.

“What’s going on?” James asks, as soldiers flood into their home, their heavy boots tracking mud and brambles on the floor. Messi crouched by James’ feet growls and barks at the intruders.

“Why are you just standing here?” a soldier scowls, jabbing the muzzle of his rifle harshly against Isco’s back, “Well, where the hell is it? Where the meteor we’re looking for?”

James watches on, distraught as a soldier restrains him by his arm. Others charge through the kitchen, the bedrooms, every room their tiny house in the woods has to offer. 

“James,” Isco’s voice is hoarse, foreign even to his own ears, “You said you could go home, if you wanted. Now—now, it’s time.”

The shelves are toppled over, along with cabinets and drawers. A few men have made it to the backyard, hammering down the door to the wooden shack. It wouldn’t take much longer before they realize that there is nothing here.

“Go,” Isco pleads, vision blurred by treacherous tears, “Don’t worry about me—Please, just go.”

James flickers his eyes to his, finally understanding. “Close your eyes, Isco!” he shouts, shrugging away the soldier, “Close your eyes!”

Isco does so without a moment’s hesitation, and suddenly, there is quiet all around him. Warmth bathes every inch of his body—gentle like a caress—and Isco feels the fear ease from his heart even as the ground beneath his feet crumble to nothingness.

~~

Isco stirs to soothing whispers of his name and fingers softly threading through the front of his hair.

“Where are we?” He blinks blearily at James, who is cradling his head in his lap, gently urging the smaller male awake.

“I don’t know,” is the answer Isco receives, while the strange boy shifts his gaze above. They are in a clearing so deep within the forest that the trees appear to arch before them, blocking every inch of sky.

“Where’s home?” Isco asks, hearing Messi bark from a distance not too far away.

James only frowns above him, shaking his head.

“And those soldiers?” he asks, watching James tightens his jaw, his words edged with a strange sort of stiffness never present before. 

“They won’t come looking for us anymore,” he says.

Isco searches those dark eyes for any hint of certainty. “And the village?”

“Would they threaten the village?” James bites his lips, “Even though we’re gone?”

Isco has no answer to that, but he can only hope for the best. The air in his lungs feels brisk and fresh, while his limbs tingle with restlessness, numb from disuse. He dares not to move however, for fear that this is a dream, and he will wake once more in the cold metal cell, tormented and alone.

“So now what?” he asks finally, with a heavy beat of his heart.

“I don’t know,” James says, but Isco can feel tender blades of grass sprouting between his fingertips, in spite of the absence of light in the most shadowed corner of the woods. “Maybe we can start from the beginning?”

**Author's Note:**

> Completed at last! This has been a difficult chapter to write, worsened only by my hiatus. Hopefully, the flow is not disrupted and I did not leave any gaping holes in the plot. It is very late at night where I live, and I will reread this when I have a decent night of sleep.
> 
> I would like to list the many inspirations to this story: Stardust, Green Angel, 1984, various Vonnegut short stories, and other tales of dystopia that I cannot recall at the moment.
> 
> Enjoy and comments are always loved! Thank you so much to my readers, for your patience and continued support xx


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